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"I am glad you like this neighborhood," said young Clintock, well-pleased with his station in front of Gwendolen. "Exceedingly. There seems to be a little of everything and not much of anything." "That is rather equivocal praise." "Not with me. I like a little of everything; a little absurdity, for example, is very amusing. I am thankful for a few queer people; but much of them is a bore."
I shall not waltz or polk with any one." "Why in the world do you say that all on a sudden?" "I can't bear having ugly people so near me." "Whom do you mean by ugly people?" "Oh, plenty." "Mr. Clintock, for example, is not ugly." Mrs. Davilow dared not mention Grandcourt. "Well, I hate woolen cloth touching me." "Fancy!" said Mrs.
It was in her attitudes and movements that every one was obliged to admit her surpassing charm. "That girl is like a high-mettled racer," said Lord Brackenshaw to young Clintock, one of the invited spectators. "First chop! tremendously pretty too," said the elegant Grecian, who had been paying her assiduous attention; "I never saw her look better." Perhaps she had never looked so well.
Her eyes had become brighter, her cheeks slightly flushed, and her tongue ready for any mischievous remarks. "I wish you would sing to us again, Miss Harleth," said young Clintock, the archdeacon's classical son, who had been so fortunate as to take her to dinner, and came up to renew conversation as soon as Herr Klesmer's performance was ended, "That is the style of music for me.
Clintock and indeed I perceive that I am doomed for every quadrille; I have not one to dispose of." She was not sorry to punish Mr. Grandcourt's tardiness, yet at the same time she would have liked to dance with him. She gave him a charming smile as she looked up to deliver her answer, and he stood still looking down at her with no smile at all.
Clintock was too anxious about the engagement to have forgotten it." But now Lady Brackenshaw came up and said, "Miss Harleth, Mr. Clintock has charged me to express to you his deep regret that he was obliged to leave without having the pleasure of dancing with you again. An express came from his father, the archdeacon; something important; he was to go. He was au désespoir."
"I think there should be more croquet, for one thing," young Clintock; "I am usually away, but if I were more here I should go in for a croquet club. You are one of the archers, I think. But depend upon it croquet is the game of the future. It wants writing up, though. One of our best men has written a poem on it, in four cantos; as good as Pope.
It was literally a new light for them to see him in presented unexpectedly on this July afternoon in an exclusive society: some were inclined to laugh, others felt a little disgust at the want of judgment shown by the Arrowpoints in this use of an introductory card. "What extreme guys those artistic fellows usually are?" said young Clintock to Gwendolen.
"That must be because you are in a puerile state of culture, and have no breadth of horizon. I have just learned that. I have been taught how bad my taste is, and am feeling growing pains. They are never pleasant," said Gwendolen, not taking any notice of Mrs. Arrowpoint, and looking up with a bright smile at young Clintock. Mrs.
Sir Joshua would have been glad to take her portrait; and he would have had an easier task than the historian at least in this, that he would not have had to represent the truth of change only to give stability to one beautiful moment. "The dancing will come next," said Mrs. Davilow "You are sure to enjoy that." "I shall only dance in the quadrille. I told Mr. Clintock so.
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