her, the flaunting of her female self, and her own poised alertness to her allure. He searched the faces of the other guests to see if anyone judged as he did
on the strange precocity of the child, the unsuitable nature of the attention. But they took their seats in a spirit of innocence and hilarity.
When Henry turned to speak to the lady on his left, he did not recognize her. She was wearing an outlandishly large red wig and a great deal of face paint, but perhaps more importantly, she had
not spoken. Once she did speak, he recognized her immediately as the lady who was staying at Dublin Castle, who had been ignored by the Wolseleys.
‘Mr James,’ she whispered, ‘do not ask me if I was invited because I will have to tell you that I was not. My husband is refusing to speak to me and he is sulking back in the
castle. But Lord Houghton, who dislikes rudeness, insisted that I come and he asked the other ladies to supervise my costume and render me unrecognizable.’
She glanced around her to see if anyone was listening.
‘My husband says you go where you are asked, but the entire purpose of fancy dress is that these rules don’t exist.’
He was concerned lest her neighbours should hear her and with his hand he cautioned her that she should lower her voice.
Mona was the focus of attention, the most honoured guest. Mr Webster, who was close to her, continually roared flattering remarks and ambiguous compliments at her; Lady Wolseley, sitting close
to her husband, was high with excitement.
Hammond moved with a bottle in his hand pouring drinks. He remained calm and unflustered no matter how busy he was. He had, Henry felt, the most beautiful temper in the hall that night.
Henry did not dance, but had he done so he would surely have had to dance with Mona, because all the gentlemen did. As each dance ended, a new partner awaited her. In flirting with her and
treating her as an adult, they succeeded, Henry thought, in mocking her. They paid no attention to the fact that she was a little girl who had dressed up and should be going to bed. Henry watched
Hammond watching her, understanding that he might be the only other person in the room who viewed Mona’s frolics with something less than complacency.
Most of the time Henry stood alone, or with another gentleman or pair of gentlemen, observing the dancing, the candles slowly burning down, the gowns and wigs increasingly tawdry in their
appearance, the cheeks of the dancers burning red and the orchestra clearly tired. It suddenly struck him that what he longed for now was an American, preferably someone from Boston, a compatriot
who would understand or at least appreciate, as nobody present seemed to, the strangeness here.
These were the English in Ireland. This building was an oasis with chaos and squalor all around. The Wolseleys had imported their silver as they had their guests and their manners. He liked Lord
Wolseley and did not wish to judge him harshly. Nonetheless, he wished for the view of an American brought up on ideals of freedom and equality and democracy. For the first time in years, he felt
the deep sadness of exile, knowing that he was alone here, an outsider, and too alert to the ironies, the niceties, the manners and, indeed, the morals to be able to participate.
As he woke from his reverie, he saw Hammond in front of him carrying still the deportment of high sympathy that he had exuded all evening. He seemed extraordinarily handsome. Henry took a glass
of water from the tray and smiled at him, but neither of them spoke. In all likelihood, Henry realized, they would not meet again.
Across the hall, Mona was sitting on Webster’s knee. He was holding her hands, rocking her up and down. Henry smiled at the thought of his imaginary American friend coming into the room
now and witnessing this less than edifying scene. As he watched them, Webster caught his eye and shrugged carelessly.
It was late now and Hammond had joined the servants
on the strange precocity of the child, the unsuitable nature of the attention. But they took their seats in a spirit of innocence and hilarity.
When Henry turned to speak to the lady on his left, he did not recognize her. She was wearing an outlandishly large red wig and a great deal of face paint, but perhaps more importantly, she had
not spoken. Once she did speak, he recognized her immediately as the lady who was staying at Dublin Castle, who had been ignored by the Wolseleys.
‘Mr James,’ she whispered, ‘do not ask me if I was invited because I will have to tell you that I was not. My husband is refusing to speak to me and he is sulking back in the
castle. But Lord Houghton, who dislikes rudeness, insisted that I come and he asked the other ladies to supervise my costume and render me unrecognizable.’
She glanced around her to see if anyone was listening.
‘My husband says you go where you are asked, but the entire purpose of fancy dress is that these rules don’t exist.’
He was concerned lest her neighbours should hear her and with his hand he cautioned her that she should lower her voice.
Mona was the focus of attention, the most honoured guest. Mr Webster, who was close to her, continually roared flattering remarks and ambiguous compliments at her; Lady Wolseley, sitting close
to her husband, was high with excitement.
Hammond moved with a bottle in his hand pouring drinks. He remained calm and unflustered no matter how busy he was. He had, Henry felt, the most beautiful temper in the hall that night.
Henry did not dance, but had he done so he would surely have had to dance with Mona, because all the gentlemen did. As each dance ended, a new partner awaited her. In flirting with her and
treating her as an adult, they succeeded, Henry thought, in mocking her. They paid no attention to the fact that she was a little girl who had dressed up and should be going to bed. Henry watched
Hammond watching her, understanding that he might be the only other person in the room who viewed Mona’s frolics with something less than complacency.
Most of the time Henry stood alone, or with another gentleman or pair of gentlemen, observing the dancing, the candles slowly burning down, the gowns and wigs increasingly tawdry in their
appearance, the cheeks of the dancers burning red and the orchestra clearly tired. It suddenly struck him that what he longed for now was an American, preferably someone from Boston, a compatriot
who would understand or at least appreciate, as nobody present seemed to, the strangeness here.
These were the English in Ireland. This building was an oasis with chaos and squalor all around. The Wolseleys had imported their silver as they had their guests and their manners. He liked Lord
Wolseley and did not wish to judge him harshly. Nonetheless, he wished for the view of an American brought up on ideals of freedom and equality and democracy. For the first time in years, he felt
the deep sadness of exile, knowing that he was alone here, an outsider, and too alert to the ironies, the niceties, the manners and, indeed, the morals to be able to participate.
As he woke from his reverie, he saw Hammond in front of him carrying still the deportment of high sympathy that he had exuded all evening. He seemed extraordinarily handsome. Henry took a glass
of water from the tray and smiled at him, but neither of them spoke. In all likelihood, Henry realized, they would not meet again.
Across the hall, Mona was sitting on Webster’s knee. He was holding her hands, rocking her up and down. Henry smiled at the thought of his imaginary American friend coming into the room
now and witnessing this less than edifying scene. As he watched them, Webster caught his eye and shrugged carelessly.
It was late now and Hammond had joined the servants
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