A party of American girls showed their Paris dresses in the transatlantic versions of the waltz.

At first they danced with the young men who came with them; but after a while they yielded to the custom of the place, and danced with any of the officers who asked them.
"I know it's the custom," said Mrs.March to Miss Triscoe, who was at her side in one of the waltzes she had decided to sit out, so as not to be dancing all the time with Burnamy, "but I never can like it without an introduction." "No," said the girl, with the air of putting temptation decidedly away, "I don't believe papa would, either." A young officer came up, and drooped in mute supplication before her.
She glanced at Mrs.March, who turned her face away; and she excused herself with the pretence that she had promised the dance, and by good fortune, Burnamy, who had been unscrupulously waltzing with a lady he did not know, came up at the moment.

She rose and put her hand on his arm, and they both bowed to the officer before they whirled away.

The officer looked after them with amiable admiration; then he turned to Mrs.March with a light of banter in his friendly eyes, and was unmistakably asking her to dance.

She liked his ironical daring, she liked it so much that she forgot her objection to partners without introductions; she forgot her fifty-odd years; she forgot that she was a mother of grown children and even a mother-in-law; she remembered only the step of her out-dated waltz.
It seemed to be modern enough for the cheerful young officer, and they were suddenly revolving with the rest...