On Tuesday morning Evelina gives the whole morning to her pen. London evenings end so late that a letter begun after them would leave her no night at all. The private ball was not the four or five couples she expected. She believes she saw half the world. Two large rooms were full, one for cards and one for dancing. Mrs Mirvan, who calls her her child, was to sit with the girls until they had partners, then join the card-players. The gentlemen passed and repassed as if the ladies were quite at their disposal, and only waiting for the honour of their commands. Evelina decides she would rather not dance at all than accept a partner who thinks her ready for the first man who condescends to take her.
A foppish, ugly young man advances on tiptoe, bows almost to the ground, and stops at "Madam, may I presume?" She draws her hand back and can scarce forbear laughing. She begs to be excused, says she is not engaged and believes she shall not dance, and turns to Maria. He retreats, still smiling, and says he will keep himself disengaged in case she relents. Mrs Mirvan, they later recollect, was talking to the lady of the house. Soon another gentleman, about six-and-twenty, handsome, gaily but not foppishly dressed, asks if she will honour him with her hand. These expressions, she is learning, are words of course. She colours, frightened to dance before strangers and with a stranger, sees nobody she knows, and goes. The minuets are already over. They were kept late by the milliners. She is seized with such a panic she can hardly speak, and only shame stops her from changing her mind. She will not tell him that she has never danced but with a schoolgirl. His talk is sensible, his manners gentle. Maria whispers that he is a nobleman, and a new alarm follows. How will he be provoked when he finds what a simple rustic he has chosen?
A lady calls the dance the most difficult she ever saw. Maria sits down, and Evelina with her, without the courage to tell her partner. Maria is then prevailed upon to dance, and cries that Lord Orville is walking about in search of her. Evelina cannot think of a word of excuse. She rises and heads for the card-room, meaning not to dance again. He finds her first, asks if she is unwell, then if he has offended her. She says no, asks after Maria, refuses commands and refreshment and then bows for the lemonade almost without knowing it. She lets him lead her back. She acquits herself ill, and expects him to be mortified. He seems content, assists her, and will not let her fatigue herself from politeness. His rank, she decides, is his least recommendation. When he talks of public places she is ignorant of them, and she thinks he is testing whether she can talk of anything. She manages only monosyllables. The fop returns, takes snuff between his phrases, and asks to what accident he must attribute not having her hand. A confused memory of assembly rules arrives too late. She was never at one before. She had not once considered the impropriety of refusing one partner and afterwards accepting another. Orville says, with some warmth, that the lady is incapable of meriting such an accusation. The man bows and grins that she had the discernment to prefer his Lordship's superior attractions. She is ready to die with shame. Orville calls him a coxcomb. She finds Mrs Mirvan at cards, tells her the disasters, and hears that Mrs Mirvan had taken such common customs for granted. She goes down one more short dance, resolves to appear less a fool, and fails again when she fancies he has been inquiring who she is. Tired and mortified, she sits until they go home. He hands her to the coach, still talking of the honour she has done him. She is already writing the night down as a disaster.
