Rosamond Lehmann: After the Dance

George was not the kind of partner who cared to talk while dancing. Once one realized that there was not necessity to keep up a flow of small talk, it was quite a pleasure to remain silent and fit oneself to his simple but correct style; just a gliding walk, with a little halt and flourish at the turns, very easy to manage.

After the dance, sitting beside her on the landing, he politely offered her a cigarette, lit one himself, and opened the conversation.

‘Were you out to-day?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Jolly good day, wasn’t it? At least a rotten morning, but he afternoon was first class.’

‘Yes, it was nice.’ Rather surprising. It had been so very wet. But perhaps he liked walking in the rain. ‘I love to be out in the rain if I’m dressed for it.’

‘Um. Going out on Saturday——’

‘I expect so.’ Rather mystifying. ‘I go out every day, really.’

‘What? Do you honestly?’ He looked very much impressed, but at the same time rather incredulous. After a bit of thinking he said: ‘You don’t live round here, then?’

‘Oh, yes. At least, only eight miles away.’

He said respectfully: ‘You must be awfully keen. I suppose some days you have a jolly good distance to the motor?’

‘Oh no. We haven’t got a car.’

He looked absolutely staggered.

‘But I didn’t know there were more than two packs within fifty miles.’

Bombshells. Death and damnation. Hideous light in darkness. Consternation. Humiliation.

‘Oh, I thought you meant… I misunderstood. I don’t—as a matter of fact, I don’t really hunt.’

After a moment, he said politely: ‘Oh, I see. I couldn’t make it out.’

He didn’t smile, or otherwise reveal his feelings. He fell silent, and looked at his shoes.

She ventured timidly: ‘I wish I did. It must be such fun.’

False. Denying acute feelings about foxes to curry flavour.

He said relentingly: ‘Nothing like it. I’d reat6her have a good day’s hunting that a week’s shooting, any day.’

‘Yes, I quite agree. It looks so lovely too, doesn’t it? The red coats.’

‘The what?’

‘The colour, I mean.’

He said very distinctly, looking straight in front of him: ‘Oh, the pink coats.’

‘Yes, the pink coats.’

She tried to repeat it indifferently, as if correcting what of course had been a mere unaccountable slip of the tongue. She remembered now too late: coats were pink, dogs were hounds.

But he remained aloof, made a few more perfunctory remarks, left her with alacrity as soon as the music began again. He didn’t ask for another dance.

Reggie turned up, looking cheerful, saying in a voice of mild regret, unshadowed by suspicion:

‘Unfortunately I’ve had no luck with your sister. Her programme appears to be completely full.’