Ross Poldark by Winston Graham

enjoying anything—”
    In the silence which followed this breakdown they listened to the laughter of the girls and men flirting in the next alcove. They were having a most agreeable time.
    “What foolish things those young people are saying,” Andrew Blamey got out abruptly.
    “Oh, do you think so,” she answered in relief.
    Now I’ve offended her, he thought. It wasn’t well framed. I meant no reflection on her. How pretty her shoulders are. I ought to take this opportunity of telling her everything; but what right have I to imagine she would be interested? Besides, I would tell it so clumsily that she’d be affronted at the first words. How clean her skin looks; she's like a westerly breeze at sunrise, rare and fresh, and good to get into your lungs and your heart.
    “When do you next leave for Lisbon?” she asked.
    “By the afternoon tide on Friday.”
    “I have been to Falmouth three times,” she told him. “A fine harbour.”
    “The finest north of the equator. A farsighted government would convert it to its proper use as a great naval base and depot. Everything is in its favour. We shall need such a harbour yet.”
    “For what?” asked Verity, watching his face. “Aren’t we at peace?”
    “For a little while. A year or two, maybe; but there will be trouble with France again. Nothing is properly settled. And when war comes, sea power will decide it.”
    “Ruth,” said Mrs. Teague in the other room. “I see Faith is sitting out this dance. Why do you not go and keep her company?”
    “Very well, Mama.” The girl rose obediently.
    “What sort of rumours do you mean?” asked her mother when she was out of earshot.
    Lady Whitworth raised her pencilled eyebrows.
    “About whom?”
    “Captain Blamey.”
    “About Captain Blamey? Dear me, I don’t think it kind to lend too much credence to whispered stories, do you?”
    “No, no, certainly not. I make a point of paying no attention to them myself.”
    “Mind you, I heard this on good authority; otherwise, I should not consider repeating it even to you.” Lady Whitworth raised her fan, which was of chicken-skin parchment delicately painted with cherubs. Behind this screen she began to speak in an undertone into Mrs. Teague's pearl earring.
    Mrs. Teague's black button eyes grew smaller and rounded as the tale proceeded; the creases in her eyelids moved down like little Venetian blinds which had come askew. “No!” she exclaimed.
    “Is that so! Why, in that case he should not be allowed in the room. I shall consider it my duty to warn Verity.”
    “If you do so, my dear, pray leave it until another occasion. I have no wish to be drawn into the quarrel that might ensue. Besides, my dear, perhaps she already knows. You know what girls are these days: man mad. And, after all, she's twenty-five—the same as your eldest, my dear. She won’t get many more chances.”
    On her way to join her sister, Ruth was intercepted by Ross. It was to ask her for the dance which was about to begin, a gavotte, that variation on the minuet which was now rivalling the minuet in favour.
    He found this time that she smiled more easily, with less constraint. From being slightly scared by his attentions it had not taken her long to become flattered. A girl with four unmarried sisters does not come to her first ball with overweening expectations. To find herself singled out by a man of some distinction was heady wine, and Ross should have been careful with his doses. But he, in a good-natured way, was only pleased to find pleasure in making someone's evening a success.
    Rather to his own surprise he found he was enjoying the dance; there was a pleasure in mixing with people although he had tried to despise it. As they separated and came together again, he continued without break his whispered conversation with her, and she giggled abruptly, earning a glance of reproof from her second sister who was in the next square and dancing with two elderly men and a titled