She had old days and young days; old hours and young hours; old minutes and young minutes; for the change might be that quick.

An alteration in her expression, or a difference in the attitude of her head, would cause astonishing indentations to appear--and behold, Fanny was an old lady! But she had been never more childlike than she was tonight as she flew over the floor in the capable arms of the queer-looking duck; for this person was her partner.
The queer-looking duck had been a real dancer in his day, it appeared; and evidently his day was not yet over.

In spite of the headlong, gay rapidity with which he bore Miss Fanny about the big room, he danced authoritatively, avoiding without effort the lightest collision with other couples, maintaining sufficient grace throughout his wildest moments, and all the while laughing and talking with his partner.

What was most remarkable to George, and a little irritating, this stranger in the Amberson Mansion had no vestige of the air of deference proper to a stranger in such a place: he seemed thoroughly at home.

He seemed offensively so, indeed, when, passing the entrance to the gallery stairway, he disengaged his hand from Miss Fanny's for an instant, and not pausing in the dance, waved a laughing salutation more than cordial, then capered lightly out of sight.
George gazed stonily at this manifestation, responding neither by word nor sign.