Miss T.—I should think so; but promise me, Captain Gadsby, you won't take poor dear Mamma for such long rides any more. They tire her so.
Captain G.—She says that no exercise tires her?
Miss T.—Yes, but she suffers afterward. You don't know what rheumatism is, and you oughtn't to keep her out so late, when it gets chilly in the evenings.
Captain G. (aside).—Rheumatism! I thought she came off her horse rather in a bunch. Whew! One lives and learns. (Aloud.) I'm sorry to hear that. She hasn't mentioned it to me.
Miss T. (flurried).—Of course not! Poor dear Mamma never would. And you mustn't say that I told you either. Promise me that you won't. Oh, Captain Gadsby, promise me you won't!
Captain G.—I am dumb, or—I shall be as soon as you've given me that dance, and another . . . if you can trouble yourself to think about me for a minute.
Miss T.—But you won't like it one little bit. You'll be awfully sorry afterward.
Captain G.—I shall like it above all things, and I shall only be sorry that I didn't get more. (Aside.) Now what in the world am I saying?
Miss T.—Very well. You will have only yourself to thank if your toes are trodden on. Shall we say Seven?
Captain G.—And Eleven. (Aside.) She can't be more than eight stone, but, even then, it's an absurdly small foot. (Looks at his own riding boots.)
Miss T.—They're beautifully shiny. I can almost see my face in them.
Captain G.—I was thinking whether I should have to go on crutches for the rest of my life if you trod on my toes.
Miss T.—Very likely. Why not change Eleven for a square?
Captain G.—No, please! I want them both waltzes. Won't you write them down?
