...
And Loveday's heart, as she walked the three miles from the fishing
village to Bugletown, sang to her of joy and hope and triumph.
When she reached the Market House, she found the band ready to strike up
the famous tune, while the mayor, his chain of office about his neck,
stood conversing with the ladies and gentlemen who were to lead the
dance. For, as is but fitting, the couples at the Flora follow each
other according to their social precedence, though all may join who
choose, providing only that the females, be they gentry or tradespeople,
wear white, and the men their best broadcloth and Sunday hats.
Of all who had gathered for the dance there was none more highly placed
than Miss Flora Le Pettit, and none as fair to see. She stood supreme in
the sunshine and her beauty, her white muslin robes swelling round her
like the petals of some full-blown rose, her white sash streaming over
them, the white ribands that decked her hat of fine Dunstable straw
flowing down to her shoulders and mingling with her auburn curls. Even
the countless tiny bows that adorned her dress (as though they were a
cloud of butterflies drawn to alight upon it by its freshness) were of
white satin. Everything about her save her little sandalled feet danced
already--the brim of the wide hat that waved above her dancing eyes, the
flounces and floating ends of her attire which the soft breeze stirred,
the corners of her smiling mouth, the dimple which came and went behind
the curls that nodded by her cheek.
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