It was on the evening this letter came that Aunt Edith gave her ball. She is the nicest of my aunts, and was taking me about to places. I had been looking forward to this dance for weeks.
I wore my white satin with a pink sash, and a special person came in from Truefitt’s to do my hair. He was a restless little man, and talked to himself in French all the time. When he had finished he stepped back, and threw up his hands and said, ‘Ah, mademoiselle, c’est magnifique!”
I said, “Yes, isn’t it?”
It was, too.
I suppose different people have their different happiest moments. I expect father’s is when he makes a good stroke at cricket or shoots particularly well. And Bob has his, probably, when he kicks a football farther than anybody else. At least, I suppose so. I love cricket, but I don’t understand football. At any rate, I know when I feel happiest. It is when I know I look nice and when the floor is just right and I have a partner whose step suits mine.
On this particular night everything was absolutely perfect. I looked very nice. I know one isn’t supposed to be aware of this, but father and Aunt Edith both told me, as well as at least half my partners, so there was a mass of corroborative evidence, as father says. Then the floor was lovely, and everybody seemed to dance well except one young man who had come from Cambridge for the ball. He danced very badly, but he did not seem to let it weigh upon his spirit at all. He was extremely cheerful.
“Would you prefer me,” he asked, “to apologize every time I tread on your foot, or shall I let it mount up and apologize collectively at the end?”
I suggested that we might sit out. He had no objection.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “dancing’s good enough in its way, but footer’s my game.”
I said, “Oh!”
“Yes. Best game on earth, I think. I should like to play it all the year round. Cricket? Oh, yes, cricket’s good enough in its way, too. But it’s not a patch on footer. I was playing last week —”
My attention wandered.
“So you see,” he went on, “by half time neither side had scored. We had the wind with us in the second half, so —”
I could never understand football, so I am afraid I let my attention wander again. After some minutes I heard him say, “And so we won after all. Now, you can’t get that sort of thing at cricket.”
I said, “I suppose not”
“Best game on earth, footer. I say, see that man who just passed us with the girl in red?”
I looked round. The man he referred to was my partner for the next dance. He was tall and wiry, and waltzed beautifully. He seemed a shy man. I noticed that he appeared to find a difficulty in talking to the lady in red. He looked troubled.
“See him?” said my companion.
I said I did.
“That’s Hook.”
“Yes; I remember that was his name.”
My companion seemed to miss something in my manner — surprise or admiration.
“The Hook, you know,” he added. “Captain of footer at Oxford. You must have heard of T. B. Hook!”
I didn’t like to say I had not; so I murmured, “Oh, T. B. Hook!”
This satisfied him. He went on to describe Mr. Hook.
“Best forward Oxford’s had for seasons. See him dribble — my word! Halloa! there’s the band starting again. May I take you —”
At this moment Mr. T. B. Hook detached himself — with relief I thought — from the lady in red, and, after looking about him, caught sight of me and made his way in my direction. I admired the way he walked. He seemed to be on springs.
He danced splendidly, but in silence. After making one remark to him — about the floor — which caused him to look scared and crimson, I gave up the idea of conversation, and began to think, in a dreamy sort of way, in time to the music. It was not till quite the end of the dance that my great idea came to me. It came in a very roundabout way. First I thought about father, then about Bob, then about Bob’s letter, then about his saying he might play for Oxford. And then, quite in a flash, I realized that it was Mr. T. B. Hook, and no other, who had the power of letting him play or keeping him out, and I saw that here was my chance of doing Bob the good turn I owed him. I have since been told — by Bob — that an idea so awful (so absolutely fiendish, was his expression) could only have occurred to a girl. Ingratitude, as I have said before, is Bob’s besetting sin.