Virginian, The The. Owen Wister

Miss Wood passed him brightly again, and was dancing the schottische almost immediately. “Oh, yes, she knows me,” the swarthy cow-puncher mused. “She has to take trouble not to see me. And what she’s a-fussin’ at is mighty interestin’. Hello!”

      “Hello!” returned Lin McLean, sourly. He had just looked into the kitchen.

      “Not dancin’?” the Southerner inquired.

      “Don’t know how.”

      “Had scyarlet fever and forgot your past life?”

      Lin grinned.

      “Better persuade the schoolmarm to learn it. She’s goin’ to give me instruction.”

      “Huh!” went Mr. McLean, and skulked out to the barrel.

      “Why, they claimed you weren’t drinkin’ this month!” said his friend, following.

      “Well, I am. Here’s luck!” The two pledged in tin cups. “But I’m not waltzin’ with her,” blurted Mr. McLean grievously. “She called me an exception.”

      “Waltzin’,” repeated the Virginian quickly, and hearing the fiddles he hastened away.

      Few in the Bear Creek Country could waltz, and with these few it was mostly an unsteered and ponderous exhibition; therefore was the Southerner bent upon profiting by his skill. He entered the room, and his lady saw him come where she sat alone for the moment, and her thoughts grew a little hurried.

      “Will you try a turn, ma’am?”

      “I beg your pardon?” It was a remote, well-schooled eye that she lifted now upon him.

      “If you like a waltz, ma’am, will you waltz with me?”

      “You’re from Virginia, I understand?” said Molly Wood, regarding him politely, but not rising. One gains authority immensely by keeping one’s seat. All good teachers know this.

      “Yes, ma’am, from Virginia.”

      “I’ve heard that Southerners have such good manners.”

      “That’s correct.” The cow-puncher flushed, but he spoke in his unvaryingly gentle voice.