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[ 44] <hr style="width: 85%;" /> <h2>At a Dance.</h2> The Hostess is receiving her Guests at the head of the staircase; a Conscientiously Literal Man presents himself. Hostess (with a gracious smile, and her eyes directed to the people immediately behind him). So glad you were able to come—how do you do? The Conscientiously Literal Man. Well, if you had asked me that question this afternoon, I should have said I was in for a severe attack of malarial fever—I had all the symptoms—but, about seven o'clock this evening, they suddenly passed off, and— [Perceives, to his surprise, that his Hostess's attention is wandering, and decides to tell her the rest later in the evening. Mr. Clumpsole. How do you do, Miss Thistledown? Can you give me a dance? Miss Thistledown (who has danced with him before—once). With pleasure—let me see, the third extra after supper? Don't forget. Miss Bruskleigh (to Major Erser). Afraid I can't give you anything just now—but if you see me standing about later on, you can come and ask me again, you know. Mr. Boldover (glancing eagerly round the room as he enters, and soliloquising mentally). She ought to be here by this time, if she's coming—can't see her though—she's certainly not dancing. There's her sister over there with the mother. She hasn't come, or she'd be with them. Poor-looking lot of girls here to-night—don't think much of this music—get away as soon as I can, no go about the thing!... Hooray! There she is, after all! Jolly waltz this is they're playing! How pretty she's looking—how pretty all the girls are looking! If I can only get her to[ 45] give me one dance, and sit out most of it somewhere! I feel as if I could talk to her to-night. By Jove, I'll try it! [Watches his opportunity, and is cautiously making his way towards his divinity, when he is intercepted. Mrs. Grappleton. Mr. Boldover, I do believe you were going to cut me! (Mr. B. protests and apologises.) Well, I forgive you. I've been wanting to have another talk with you for ever so long. I've been thinking so much of what you said that evening about Browning's relation to Science and the Supernatural. Suppose you take me down stairs for an ice or something, and we can have it out comfortably together. [Dismay of Mr. B., who has entirely forgotten any theories he may have advanced on the subject, but has no option but to comply; as he leaves the room with Mrs. Grappleton on his arm, he has a torturing glimpse of Miss Roundarm, apparently absorbed in her partner's conversation. Mr. Senior Roppe (as he waltzes). Oh, you needn't feel convicted of extraordinary ignorance, I assure you, Miss Featherhead. You would be surprised if you knew how many really clever persons have found that simple little problem of nought divided by one too much for them. Would you have supposed, by the way, that there is a reservoir in Pennsylvania containing a sufficient number of gallons to supply all London for eighteen months? You don't quite realize it, I see. "How many gallons is that?" Well, let me calculate roughly—taking the population of London at four millions, and the average daily consumption for each individual at—no, I can't work it out with sufficient accuracy while I am dancing; suppose we sit down, and I'll do it for you on my shirt-cuff—oh, very well; then I'll work it out when I get home, and send you the result to-morrow, if you will allow me. Mr. Culdersack (who has provided himself beforehand with a set of topics for conversation—to his partner, as they halt for a moment). Er—(consults some hieroglyphics on his cuff stealthily)—have you read Stanley's book yet? Miss Tabula Raiser. No, I haven't. Is it interesting? Mr. Culdersack. I can't say. I've not seen it myself. Shall we—er—? [They take another turn.[ 46] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/p46.png" width-obs="474" height-obs="600" alt=""ER—" (CONSULTS SOME HIEROGLYPHICS ON HIS CUFF STEALTHILY)." title="" /> "ER—" (CONSULTS SOME HIEROGLYPHICS ON HIS CUFF STEALTHILY).</div> [ 47] Mr. C. I suppose you have—er—been to the (hesitates between the Academy and the Military Exhibition—decides on latter topic as fresher) Military Exhibition? Miss T. R. No—not yet. What do you think of it? Mr. C. Oh—I haven't been either. Er—do you care to—? [They take another turn. Mr. C. (after third halt). Er—do you take any interest in politics? Miss T. R. Not a bit. Mr. C. (much relieved). No more do I. (Considers that he has satisfied all mental requirements.) Er—let me take you down stairs for an ice. [They go. Mrs. Grappleton (re-entering with Mr. Boldover, after a discussion that has outlasted two ices and a plate of strawberries). Well, I thought you would have explained my difficulties better than that—oh, what a delicious waltz! Doesn't it set you longing to dance? Mr. B. (who sees Miss Roundarm in the distance, disengaged). Yes, I really think I must—. [Preparing to escape. Mrs. Grappleton. I'm getting such an old thing, that really I oughtn't to—but well, just this once, as my husband isn't here. [Mr. Boldover resigns himself to necessity once more. First Chaperon (to second ditto). How sweet it is of your eldest girl to dance with that absurd Mr. Clumpsole! It's really too bad of him to make such an exhibition of her—one can't help smiling at them! Second Ch. Oh, Ethel never can bear to hurt any one's feelings—so different from some girls! By the way, I've not seen your daughter dancing to-night—men who dance are so scarce nowadays—I suppose they think they have the right to be a little fastidious. First Ch. Bella has been out so much this week, that she doesn't care to dance except with a really first-rate partner. She is not so easily pleased as your Ethel, I'm afraid. Second Ch. Ethel is young, you see, and, when one is pressed so much to dance, one can hardly refuse, can one? When she has had as many seasons as Bella, she will be less energetic, I dare say.[ 48] [Mr. Boldover has at last succeeded in approaching Miss Roundarm, and even in inducing her to sit out a dance with him; but, having led her to a convenient alcove, he finds himself totally unable to give any adequate expression to the rapture he feels at being by her side. Mr. B. (determined to lead up to it somehow). I—I was rather thinking—(he meant to say, "devoutly hoping," but, to his own bitter disgust, it comes out like this)—I should meet you here to-night. Miss R. Were you? Why? Mr. B. (with a sudden dread of going too far just yet). Oh (carelessly), you know how one does wonder who will be at a place, and who won't. Miss R. No, indeed, I don't—how does one wonder? Mr. B. (with a vague notion of implying a complimentary exception in her case). Oh, well, generally—(with the fatal tendency of a shy man to a sweeping statement)—one may be pretty sure of meeting just the people one least wants to see, you know. Miss R. And so you thought you would probably meet me. I see. Mr. B. (overwhelmed with confusion, and not in the least knowing what he says). No, no, I didn't think that—I hoped you mightn't—I mean, I was afraid you might— [Stops short, oppressed by the impossibility of explaining. Miss R. You are not very complimentary to-night, are you? Mr. B. I can't pay compliments—to you—I don't know how it is, but I never can talk to you as I can to other people! Miss R. Are you amusing when you are with other people? Mr. B. At all events I can find things to say to them. Enter Another Man. Another Man (to Miss R.). Our dance, I think? Miss R. (who had intended to get out of it). I was wondering if you ever meant to come for it. (To Mr. B., as they rise.) Now I sha'n't feel I am depriving the other people! (Perceives the speechless agony in his expression, and relents.) Well, you can have the next after this if you care[ 49] about it—only do try to think of something in the meantime! (As she goes off.) You will—won't you? Mr. B. (to himself). She's given me another chance! If only I can rise to it. Let me see—what shall I begin with? I know—Supper! She hasn't been down yet. His Hostess. Oh, Mr. Boldover, you're not dancing this—do be good and take some one down to supper—those poor Chaperons are dying for some food. [Mr. B. takes down a Matron whose repast is protracted through three waltzes and a set of Lancers—he comes up to find Miss Roundarm gone, and the Musicians putting up their instruments. Coachman at Door (to Linkman, as Mr. B. goes down the steps). That's the lot, Jim! [Mr. B. walks home, wishing the Park Gates were not shut, so as to <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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