Lucy Hough was a pretty enough girl of some seventeen or eighteen years of age whom Hornblower had already met on a few occasions. Hornblower told himself he could feel no interest in a child straight from the schoolroom – almost straight from the nursery – however pretty. He smiled at her and she dropped her eyes, looked up at him again, and once more looked away. It was interesting that she was not nearly so timid when she met the glances and acknowledged the bows of the young men who were far more likely to be of interest to her.
“Your Lordship does not dance, I understand?” said Hough.
“It is painful to be reminded of what I am missing in the presence of so much beauty,” replied Hornblower with another smile at Mrs Hough and at Lucy.
“Perhaps a rubber of whist, then, My Lord?” suggested Hough.
“The Goddess of Chance instead of the Muse of Music,” said Hornblower – he always tried to talk about music as if it meant something to him – “I will woo the one instead of the other.”
“From what I know about Your Lordship’s skill at whist,” said Hough, “I would say that as regards Your Lordship the Goddess of Chance has but small need for wooing.”
The ball had been in progress, apparently, for some time before Hornblower’s arrival. There were two score young people on the floor of the great room, a dozen dowagers on chairs round the wall, an orchestra in the corner. Hough led the way to another room; Hornblower dismissed his two young men with a nod, and settled down to whist with Hough and a couple of formidable old ladies. The closing of the heavy door shut out, luckily, nearly all the exasperating din of the orchestra; the old ladies played a sound game, and a pleasant hour enough went by. It was terminated by the entrance of Mrs Hough.
“It is time for the Polonaise before supper,” she announced. “I really must beg you to leave your cards and come and witness it.”
“Would Your Lordship – ?” asked Hough apologetically.
“Mrs Hough’s wish is my command,” said Hornblower.
The ballroom was, of course, stifling hot. Faces were flushed and shiny, but there was no lack of energy apparent as the double line formed up for the Polonaise while the orchestra grated out its mysterious noises to encourage the young people. Spendlove was leading Lucy by the hand and they were exchanging happy glances. Hornblower, from the weary age of forty-six, could look with condescension at these young men and women in their immature teens and twenties, tolerant of their youth and enthusiasm. The noises the orchestra made became more jerky and confusing, but the young people could find some sense in them. They capered round the room, skirts swaying and coattails flapping, everyone smiling and light-hearted; the double lines became rings, melted into lines again, turned and re-formed, until in the end with a final hideous crash from the orchestra the women sank low in curtsies and the men bent themselves double before them – a pretty sight once the music had ceased. There was a burst of laughter and applause before the lines broke up. The women, with sidelong looks at each other, gathered into groups which edged out of the room. They were retiring to repair the damages sustained in the heat of action.
Hornblower met Lucy’s eyes again, and once more she looked away and then back at him. Shy? Eager? It was hard to tell with these mere children; but it was not the sort of glance she had bestowed on Spendlove.
“Ten minutes at least before the supper march, My Lord,” said Hough. “Your Lordship will be kind enough to take in Mrs Hough?”
“Delighted, of course,” replied Hornblower.
Spendlove approached. He was mopping his face with his handkerchief.
“I would enjoy a breath of cooler air, My Lord,” he said. “Perhaps -”
“I’ll come with you,” said Hornblower, not sorry to have an excuse to be rid of Hough’s ponderous company.
They stepped out into the dark garden; so bright had been the candles in the ballroom that they had to tread cautiously at first.