He never danced: he knew he was too old, and he never affected youth. But, when Lucy was dancing, she often found his large, intelligent, expressive eyes fixed on her from beneath the very dark eyebrows which shaded them, without giving them any look of harshness. She felt flattered, without being distressed, for the expression was that of kindly pleasure in seeing a lovely young woman innocently gay. The gaze expressed that he did think her lovely, though it contained nothing that could alarm the most shrinking modesty. In the course of the evening he conversed a good deal with Mrs. Heckfield, in whose common-place remarks he seemed to find much pith and substance. Between the dances, when Lucy returned to her mother, he rose to give her his seat, not as if he was merely doing an act of common courtesy, but as if it afforded him real heart-felt pleasure to be of any possible use to her, and it was with kindliness, rather than gallantry, that he flew to fetch her some tea, or some lemonade. He handed Mrs. Heckfield to supper, and sat between her and Lucy, who found her partner quite dull and stupid, in comparison with this very agreeable new acquaintance. He did not talk much; he said nothing which she could afterwards remember as being either clever or amusing. But he had a manner of listening with a deferential air, his eyes fixed with attention on the speaker, while his countenance seemed to say, the remark made was new and luminous, something which had never struck him before, so that people believed themselves delighted with him, while, in truth, they were delighted with themselves. In a cabinet-council, Colonel and Mrs. Heckfield agreed that, as he appeared to find so much pleasure in their society, they might venture to ask Lord Montreville to dinner. But who to invite to meet him? That was a question of much consideration. The Bexleighs were agreeable, but they were so numerous, that it would make the party dull to have so many of one family. It is dreadful if members of the same household get near each other; they cannot seize that moment for talking of family affairs, neither can they make conversation like strangers. “Let us have the Thompsons, my dear,” said the Colonel. “La! Colonel Heckfield! Mrs. Thompson! so fat and vulgar, and Mr. Thompson, so silent, unless you talk of stocks or consols.” “Well, then, Colonel Danby and his daughter.” “They will do pretty well; but I was thinking of Mrs. Haughtville, who, you know, has always lived in the first circles.” “What! that deaf old woman? I can’t see of what use she can be.” “Why, my dear, it won’t do to ask just common-place country neighbours. We must get somebody Lord Montreville is likely to know.” “Very true! And then my friend Dolby, he knows every body, and can talk thirteen to the dozen.”