A moment ago Mr. Parker came up to me, and told me in his gay, loud voice how much he would like to have a valse with me, but that his clothes are so tight, he really dare not.  Then he disappears among the throng, with an uncomfortable sidelong movement, which endeavors to shield the incompleteness of his back view.

I am still smiling at his dilemma, when another voice sounds in my ears.

“You are not dancing?”

It is Musgrave.  He has had the vanity to take-off his absurd costume, and to wash the powder from his hair, and the rouge from his cheeks.  He stands before me now, cool, pale, and civilized, in the faultless quietness of his evening dress.

“No,” reply I, shortly, “I am not!”

“Will you dance with me?”

I am not looking at him; indeed, I never look at him now, if I can help; but I hear a sort of hesitating defiance in his tone.

“No, thank you”—­(still more shortly)—­“I might have danced, if I had liked:  it is not for want of asking”—­(with a little childish vanity)—­ “but I do not wish.”

“Do not you mean to dance any more this evening, then?”

“I do not know; that is as may be!”

I have almost turned my back upon him, and my eyes are following—­not perhaps quite without a movement of envy—­my various acquaintances, scampering, coupled in mad embraces.  I think that he is gone, but I am mistaken.

“Will you at least let me take you in to supper?” in a tone whose formality is strongly dashed with resentment.

I wish that I did not know his voice so hatefully well:  all its intonations and inflections are as familiar to me as Roger’s.

“I do not want any supper,” I answer, petulantly, turning the back of my head and all my powdered curls toward him; “I never eat supper at a ball; I like to stand here; I like to watch the people—­to watch Barbara!”

This at least is true.  To see Barbara dance has always given, and does even now give, me the liveliest satisfaction.  No one holds her head so prettily as Barbara; no one moves so smoothly, and with so absolutely innocent a gayety.  The harshest, prudishest adversary of valsing, were he to see Barbara valse, would be converted to thinking it the most modest of dances.  Mr. Musgrave is turning away.  Just as he is doing so, an idea strikes me.  Perhaps they are in the supper-room.

“After all,” say I, unceremoniously, and forgetting for the moment who it is that I am addressing, “I do not mind if I do have something; I—­I —­am rather hungry.”

I put my hand on his arm, and we walk off.

The supper-room is rather full—­(when, indeed, was a supper-room known to be empty?)—­some people are sitting—­some standing—­it is therefore a little difficult to make out who is here, and who is not.  In total absolute forgetfulness of the supposed cause that has brought me here, I stand eagerly staring about, under people’s arms—­over their shoulders.  So far, I do not see them.  I am recalled by Mr. Musgrave’s voice, coldly polite.