"Mitchell, this will not do," said Webb. "I must have you dance." They were in the break between sets, musicians pausing to sip punch or wipe their brows.
David looked at him in alarm; Webb had been dancing the last with his fiancé, which had on occasion made him expansive enough to impose jovial orders such as those.
But tonight a glance at Webb's twinkling eye was enough to tell David that his friend was only teasing him. "Do not be ridiculous," David said, allowing fondness to seep into his tone.
"If I will not dance in London, what on earth makes you think I will do so here, where I know no one?
" He had spent the evening so far agreeably engaged in observing those around him, forming mental notes for the next in his series of satirical pamphlets.
He slapped Webb's shoulder affectionately. "Be off with you, and bother me no more. Miss Abigail will have to be sufficient entertainment for you tonight."
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