Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of the thick
shoes would have been better than any drums. That merry stamping, that
gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand--where
can we see them now? That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying
aside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but not
affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by their
side--that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little
compliments to their wives, as if their courting days were come
again--those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their
partners, having nothing to say--it would be a pleasant variety to
see all that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and
scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered boots
smiling with double meaning.
There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this dance:
it was that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, that
slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into
his eye in the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite
to him instead of the offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong person.
So he gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.
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