"Basil! Basil! my dear boy," said a voice near him. "Pray excuse me, but
what are you doing here? Dreaming in a ballroom? This will not do."
And Basil, aroused from his dream, looked up to see the face of Colonel
Mostyn, wearing an expression of perfect horror.
"Do rouse up, Basil! Do, for heaven's sake, try to be like every one
else! Lady Masham wishes to know you; come with me."
Basil followed, like a victim. Lady Masham received him cordially,
mentioned casually that she had been to school with his mother,
therefore felt called upon to take a special interest in himself, and
then, very kindly, introduced him to her youngest daughter, Miss Nellie,
whom she pathetically called the flower of her flock. Miss Nellie was a
pretty girl, as were all the Misses Masham, or they would not have
figured at her grace's ball. She wore the regulation chignon, golden
brown in her case, her eyes were blue, her lips rosy and sweet, her face
fair as the lilies and roses of summer. They had all been brought up
after the same pattern; they all knew exactly what to say in every case
and how to say it. As a matter of course, and not, it is to be feared,
because he felt the least inclination, Basil asked the young lady to
dance, and Miss Nellie, with the prettiest pink flush on her cheek,
consented.
She talked about the rooms, the opera, the archduke, until Basil almost
groaned aloud. There was his beautiful queen, with her face full of
poetry and her eyes of love.
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