I had always thought him a lubber, and the good qualities he now showed annoyed (I am ashamed to say) as much as they surprised me.  ’Twas clear that he was humbly paying his court to the lady, and feeling myself debarred by my poverty from entering the lists against him, I could but stand aside and fume at his greater advantages.  Lucy danced much with him at the governor’s ball; she was so beset by would-be partners that when I, who had somewhat morosely hung back, approached her to ask her for a place on her card, she hummed, and pursed her lips, and said she feared I was too late, and then, with a pretty air of relenting, announced that she could give me one dance towards the end.

I was standing, gloomily watching her dance with Cludde, when I felt a tap on my arm, and saw Mistress Lucetta Gurney (whom I have before mentioned) smiling up at me from behind her fan.

“Why these black looks, Mr. Bold?” says she.

“Because you have not favored me with a dance, Mistress Lucetta,” said I, with a very low bow.

“Fie, Mr. Bold,” cries she, “when did you ask me?”

“I ask you now,” I said, and with that I took her under my arm and strode among the dancers with so fierce and determined an air (as Mistress Lucetta told me) that, being more than common tall, I was much observed and humorously criticized by the company.  I suppose I carried the same fierceness into my dancing, for after footing it for the space of a minute, Mistress Lucetta begged me to stop, saying she had no fancy for dancing with a whirlwind.

“Take me to a seat, Mr. Bold.  I am going to talk to you,” she said.

And talk to me she did, in a way that mightily surprised me.

“Do you think I don’t see through you, Mr. Bold?” she said.  “You are most desperately jealous of Mr. Cludde; you know you are; and of every other man in the room; and you show it, which is a very, very silly thing to do.  Oh, don’t speak; you would only tell me stories.  Listen to me.  Lucy is a dear friend of mine, and I know all about everything.  You are a disgrace to your name, sir.”

“Why, what have I done?” I asked, amazed at the sternness she had suddenly thrown into her voice.  And she burst into a ripple of laughter.

“I do think you are the stupidest man alive,” she said.  “Is not your name Bold, and are you not timid, and backward, and humble, and despondent, and a great big baby!  Why, Lucy thinks the world of you; she is never tired of hearing that red-haired man Punchard talk of you; and yet you are glum, and scowl at her, and glower at the men who are cheerful and try to amuse her, and whom she doesn’t care a button for.  Oh, Mr. Bold, ’tis you who ought to change your name, for to be sure you will never persuade her to change hers.”

“But Dick Cludde!” I stammered, taken aback by this plain speaking.

“Is going to dance with me, sir,” she said, springing up as, the dance being over, Dick came to claim her for the next.