When all the guests had arrived and the spacious house was a blaze
of light and happiness--fair women smiling and their musical
voices fairly making a delightful hub-bub of light conversation,
and the gentlemen, superb in their gold-trimmed uniforms, or
impressive in full evening dress--the manager of the dance sang
out for all to take partners for some sort of a bowing and
scraping drill that is a mystery to me to this day. I had seen the
fandango in Taos, and elsewhere in the Mexican parts of the
southwest, but this was the first time I had seen Americans dance,
and it was all appallingly new to me.
I sat in a corner like a homely girl at a kissing-bee, and had
nothing to say.
After the crowd had danced about two hours, the floor-manager sang
out, "Ladies' choice!" or something that meant the same thing, and
to my surprise and terror, Mrs. Elliott made a bee-line for me and
asked me to assist her in dancing a quadrille. I had no more idea
of a quadrille than I had of something that was invented
yesterday, and I begged her to excuse me, telling her that I knew
nothing whatever of dancing. She declared, however, that I had
looked on long enough to learn and that I would go through all
right. I hung back like a balky horse at the foot of a slippery
hill, but between Mrs. Elliott and the prompter I was almost
dragged out on the floor.
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