Natalie patted her already neat hair and shoved her embroidery hastily into the reticule. It was not comme il faut to let gentlemen see one doing anything that savored of domesticity. It would be lamentably bourgeois.

Angelica Hamilton ceased playing, twisted around on the stool, her long face both unhappy and self-conscious, now that she no longer had her music to support her. The other women, including the matrons, all melted into various attitudes. Only Theo had no part in the galvanic thrill which transformed them at the approach of masculine steps and voices.

She watched them with detachment and a twist of envy. They were all, even Natalie, expectant and excited, anticipating pleasure and the delights of flirtation. Yet, for her, the evening had grayed. The magical mood, the breathless joy which had been hers four hours ago when she entered this room, had somehow seeped away. It was a formless disappointment. Something that she ever anticipated was not coming.

She sighed, wishing that it were time for everyone to go home. Then she and Aaron would have their invariable bedtime chat, and he would make her laugh again with his wittily caustic comments on the guests.

The returning gentlemen were preceded by four hired musicians: two fiddlers, a harpist, and a pianist. The string players had brought their pitch-pipe. They were unused to playing with the pianoforte, which they regarded as a most unnecessary instrument. The orchestra broke into hot argument, which Aaron quelled. 'Tonight,' he announced, 'we shall have only cotillions and valses led by Mr. Barks at the pianoforte.'

More of this French craze, thought Hamilton sourly. No doubt the minuets and congos were no longer good enough for the magnificent Colonel Burr. He'd be damned if he'd caper around in a cotillion. Let the Republicans make fools of themselves if they wished to. He crossed the room and seated himself beside his wife.

'This gathering nauseates me,' he said in her ear. 'How much longer must we endure?'

'Sh-sh,' whispered Betsy Hamilton. 'You are intolerant, Sandy. The young people are enjoying themselves. Soon there will be a party of whist for you. Now behave yourself.'

He shrugged his shoulders, crossed his silken legs. She was right, of course. Good breeding demanded that one allow oneself to be bored, insulted, have one's dearest convictions outraged in the name of accepted hospitality. He should not have come. He had let the womenfolk persuade him. They were fond of little Theodosia. Poor child, lashed to the chariot wheels of such a father. He stared at Theo with rising irritation. Spoiled she was. Burr showered gifts on her as though she were a princess—or his mistress. It was preposterous, vulgar.

The musicians after several false starts struck up a recognizable rendition of 'The Lass of Richmond Hill'. There was laughter and an outburst of clapping. The song had been written in England and referred to a far different Richmond Hill, but its appropriate title pleased Aaron. He took Theodosia's hand and led her forward, started the singing himself, while she stood blushing beside him.