The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Francie devoutly hoped he might soon get tired, and slip off to bed.

The three or four devoted girl friends who were staying in the house for

this dance had partaken with her, in a small, abandoned room upstairs,

of tea and cold chicken-legs, hurriedly served; the men had been sent

out to dine at Eustace's Club, it being felt that they must be fed up.

Punctually on the stroke of nine arrived Mrs. Small alone. She made

elaborate apologies for the absence of Timothy, omitting all mention

of Aunt Hester, who, at the last minute, had said she could not be

bothered. Francie received her effusively, and placed her on a rout

seat, where she left her, pouting and solitary in lavender-coloured

satin--the first time she had worn colour since Aunt Ann's death.

The devoted maiden friends came now from their rooms, each by magic

arrangement in a differently coloured frock, but all with the same

liberal allowance of tulle on the shoulders and at the bosom--for they

were, by some fatality, lean to a girl. They were all taken up to Mrs.

Small. None stayed with her more than a few seconds, but clustering

together talked and twisted their programmes, looking secretly at the

door for the first appearance of a man.

Then arrived in a group a number of Nicholases, always punctual--the

fashion up Ladbroke Grove way; and close behind them Eustace and his

men, gloomy and smelling rather of smoke.

Three or four of Francie's lovers now appeared, one after the other;

she had made each promise to come early. They were all clean-shaven and

sprightly, with that peculiar kind of young-man sprightliness which

had recently invaded Kensington; they did not seem to mind each other's

presence in the least, and wore their ties bunching out at the ends,

white waistcoats, and socks with clocks. All had handkerchiefs concealed

in their cuffs. They moved buoyantly, each armoured in professional

gaiety, as though he had come to do great deeds. Their faces when they

danced, far from wearing the traditional solemn look of the dancing

Englishman, were irresponsible, charming, suave; they bounded, twirling

their partners at great pace, without pedantic attention to the rhythm

of the music.

At other dancers they looked with a kind of airy scorn--they, the light

brigade, the heroes of a hundred Kensington 'hops'--from whom alone

could the right manner and smile and step be hoped.

After this the stream came fast; chaperones silting up along the wall

facing the entrance, the volatile element swelling the eddy in the

larger room.

Men were scarce, and wallflowers wore their peculiar, pathetic

expression, a patient, sourish smile which seemed to say: "Oh, no! don't

mistake me, I know you are not coming up to me. I can hardly expect

that!" And Francie would plead with one of her lovers, or with some

callow youth: "Now, to please me, do let me introduce you to Miss Pink;

such a nice girl, really!" and she would bring him up, and say: "Miss

Pink--Mr. Gathercole. Can you spare him a dance?" Then Miss Pink,

smiling her forced smile, colouring a little, answered: "Oh! I think

so!" and screening her empty card, wrote on it the name of Gathercole,

spelling it passionately in the district that he proposed, about the

second extra.