“I can play a waltz,” said Mrs. Danvers, the purse-making young lady’s mother, who had just then entered the room—”I can’t bear to see you, Lady Fitzhenry, labouring at the pianoforte, do let _me_ play who can do nothing else; and do you go and join the dancers.”—And she insisted on Emmeline resigning her post. All were engaged: there was no one left to waltz with. Emmeline was young; by nature gay, she liked dancing as all gay young people do. The music, the sight of others dancing, all had revived her former love for the amusement, and, not liking to deprive any one else of her partner, she set off alone after the rest. Unsupported, and lately out of practise, she soon grew giddy, the room turned round, she knew not where she went, and, to save herself from falling, she caught hold of something she had run against, putting her other hand over her eyes till the dizziness had gone off. When it had subsided, still keeping her hold, she looked up to see where she was. It was her husband’s arm she had hold of. She could scarcely check a scream of alarm which burst from her on seeing what she had done: she hastily withdrew her hand, her flushed cheek turning deadly pale. Fitzhenry was looking at her attentively, but with apparent surprise, and indeed, even apparent displeasure. The whole occurrence, which did not occupy above a minute, had been mistaken by the dancers. They thought she was proposing to him to waltz with her, and Mr. Moore hastily said, “That is right, Lady Fitzhenry; make that lazy fellow dance. No one waltzes so well or _was_ so fond of it; and it is too ridiculous his giving himself already the airs of an old married man!” “Lord and Lady Fitzhenry dance together! Oh! that will be charming,” exclaimed Miss Selina, clapping her hands in foolish ecstasy. “Come, come along, Fitzhenry,” rejoined Mr. Moore: “don’t be bashful; ask Lady Fitzhenry in proper form to do you the favour of dancing with you.” “Certainly,” said Ernest, rather embarrassed: “certainly—with pleasure, if Lady Fitzhenry wishes——I mean, if she will waltz with me, and can get no better partner.” “Oh! I never meant that—I was only giddy——,” said Emmeline, hardly knowing what she said or did. The other waltzers stopped. “Now, Lady Fitzhenry, we will follow you,” said the persecuting Mr. Moore. Any further explanation or objection was impossible: waltz together they must—and Fitzhenry put his arm round her. All those who talk of the waltz as of a dance possessing no other attraction, no more interest than that of any other, and owing the ill name it bears merely to a cry raised against it by prejudice in a country where as yet it is but newly introduced, have never waltzed with _him_ or _her_ they love; for then their own feelings would answer, and silence them.