“A dance, and given for us!” cries Theo. “Oh, Harry, how delightful! I wish we could begin this very minute!”
“Why, for a savage Virginian, I declare, Harry Warrington, thou art the most civilised young man possible!” says the Colonel. “My dear, shall we dance a minuet together?”
“We have done such a thing before, Martin Lambert!” says the soldier's fond wife. Her husband hums a minuet tune; whips a plate from the tea-table, and makes a preparatory bow and flourish with it as if it were a hat, whilst madam performs her best curtsey.
Only Hetty, of the party, persists in looking glum and displeased. “Why, child, have you not a word of thanks to throw to Mr. Warrington?” asks Theo of her sister.
“I never did care for dancing much,” says Hetty. “What is the use of standing up opposite a stupid man, and dancing down a room with him?”
“Merci du compliment!” says Mr. Warrington.
“I don't say that you are stupid—that is—that is, I—I only meant country dances,” says Hetty, biting her lips, as she caught her sister's eye. She remembered she had said Harry was stupid, and Theo's droll humorous glance was her only reminder.
But with this Miss Hetty chose to be as angry as if it had been quite a cruel rebuke. “I hate dancing—there—I own it,” she says, with a toss of her head.
“Nay, you used to like it well enough, child!!” interposes her mother.
“That was when she was a child: don't you see she is grown up to be an old woman?” remarks Hetty's father. “Or perhaps Miss Hester has got the gout?”