"And will you take pity on me, and a risk on my waltzing powers?"
asked Sir Tilton of Mrs. Wingfield.
"I would not risk anything so important as a waltz, Sir Tilton; but as
I have already tested your capabilities as a dancer away I go on your
protecting arms."
"Or into them," laughed her partner, as entering the ball-room they
went careering at full speed down the small spaces.
"Beg pardon, Lord Lisleville," cried Sir Tilton, as he dashed against
an ancient beau with a long rent-roll, who with his _fiancee_, a
pretty little French girl, who had been trying to put him out of step
in order to dance with her young Lochinvar. Sir Tilton, knowing the
circumstances, pitied the little Parisienne who had been dolefully
doing her duty all the evening; so determined to come to her aid,
hence the collision, which throwing the noble lord almost on his back,
sent his wig flying several yards off which the dancers swept with
their trains. The gay _petite_ was wicked enough to put her
handkerchief, not to her eyes, but to her mouth, to veil her smiles as
she gave herself up to her young lover who had been eating his heart
out all the evening.
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