It was as if she knew him. No, he was no Edmund, never; there was no comparison. But he was someone to her.

Someone she knew; had known once, maybe, if only in a fever dream.

The dance ended in blessed relief for Fanny. And yet, as they exchanged the final pleasantries, and his fingers left her trembling own, Fanny felt a kind of loss. He stepped away, was gone in the crowd, like a breath of dark wind. And once again, as always, no one paid the least bit of attention to his coming or going.

Fanny was returned to the vicinity of her aunt, and Mr. Bertram finally approached. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking her to dance, drew a chair near her, and asked, “Who was that smart fellow you were dancing with, Fanny? I forget his name again, for some infernal reason. Who is he?”

“Lord Eastwind. A favored acquaintance of Aunt Bertram.”

“Ah! Egyptology and artifacts. It makes perfect sense now. As such, the fellow interests me no longer.”

And then Tom proceeded to give her an account of a newly acquired but ailing horse with the markings, he claimed, of the map of Europe and Asia upon its flanks—verily! (The seller told him it was not to be rubbed down for at least a twelvemonth in the flanks area)—and the opinion of the groom, from whom he had just parted. Fanny realized that a dance with him was not to be. And in the modesty of her nature she immediately felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it.

After he had told of his remarkable horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, “If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.” With more than equal civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance.

“I am glad of it,” said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again, “for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep it up so long. They had need be all in love, to find any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see they are so many couple of lovers—all but Yates and East—whatever his name is, and Mrs. Grant—and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor,” making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at.