At a quadrille party, the bashful young gentleman always remains as
near the entrance of the room as possible, from which position he
smiles at the people he knows as they come in, and sometimes steps
forward to shake hands with more intimate friends: a process which
on each repetition seems to turn him a deeper scarlet than before.
He declines dancing the first set or two, observing, in a faint
voice, that he would rather wait a little; but at length is
absolutely compelled to allow himself to be introduced to a
partner, when he is led, in a great heat and blushing furiously,
across the room to a spot where half-a-dozen unknown ladies are
congregated together.
'Miss Lambert, let me introduce Mr. Hopkins for the next
quadrille.' Miss Lambert inclines her head graciously. Mr.
Hopkins bows, and his fair conductress disappears, leaving Mr.
Hopkins, as he too well knows, to make himself agreeable. The
young lady more than half expects that the bashful young gentleman
will say something, and the bashful young gentleman feeling this,
seriously thinks whether he has got anything to say, which, upon
mature reflection, he is rather disposed to conclude he has not,
since nothing occurs to him. Meanwhile, the young lady, after
several inspections of her bouquet, all made in the expectation
that the bashful young gentleman is going to talk, whispers her
mamma, who is sitting next her, which whisper the bashful young
gentleman immediately suspects (and possibly with very good reason)
must be about HIM.
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