"Look at St. John," says Paul, as we pause to take breath. "However earnest his solicitations, do not be prevailed upon to dance with him: he has a knack of making spectacles of his partners."
"But I have promised," I say, with some dismay. "He asked me at dinner, and of course I was obliged to say yes. Do you not know that anything in the shape of a partner is better than none at all?"
"You will know plenty of people presently," he says. "Don't believe all the nonsense they will talk to you, Nell."
"But I like nonsense: it is far more amusing than heavy common sense; besides, ball-room conversation is never expected to be very wise, is it?"
The music has ceased, and we are walking down the room, past the wall-flowers-prim and patient, with their white, white boots, that by-and-by will be their shame not their glory, and their sweet little smile that ems to say, "We are sitting down, certainly; but only because we much prefer doing so to dancing!"—past the portly, coffee-backed observant dowagers, and so to Milly, who is looking with real indignation at Fane's rapidly vanishing heels, which he has been shaking with much agility ever since he came downstairs. She is talking to a long, lean, liver-coloured gentleman whose name I hear is Viscount Bingley. We are all standing together when Silvia Fleming comes slowly past, the eye of every man and woman present following her. She wears white brocade slashed with crimson, and her fairness shows more dazzlingly than ever against Sir George Vestris' dark beauty.
"Are you not going to dance with Miss Fleming to-night?" I ask, as we move away. "If so, you had better be quick in asking her, for in five minutes her card will be full."
"Therefore I will not presume to ask so great an honour," he says. "And now, Nell, will you let me see your card?"
