"Mr. Hawthorne," she drawled, her voice a tinkling melody, as she gestured towards the young man awkwardly standing by the fireplace. "You haven't danced with me yet. Surely you wouldn't leave such a distinguished lady waiting?"
Mr. Hawthorne, a pale and unassuming fellow, fumbled with his top hat. "Lady Beatrice, I..." he began, his voice cracking with nerves.
"Don't be silly," she interrupted, her smile widening. "I know you are merely dazzled by my...brilliance."
Her words, dripping with pompous self-assurance, made him flinch. He had heard whispers about her vanity, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer arrogance of her demeanor. He swallowed hard, trying to muster a shred of confidence. He was, after all, a man of some standing himself. But in the face of Lady Beatrice's haughty gaze, he felt like a mere shadow.
"Perhaps we could discuss the latest developments in literature?" he offered tentatively, trying to steer the conversation away from her blatant self-aggrandizement.
"Literature? My dear Mr. Hawthorne," she scoffed, "how provincial. Only the most trivial matters occupy my mind." She laughed, a brittle, tinkling sound that echoed through the room.
Mr. Hawthorne, feeling utterly crushed, wished he had stayed by the fireplace, where at least he was ignored.