They are the least suited couple at every ball, yet no matter how often they attended, it was difficult to recognize precisely what ways they unnerve that no one else pursues. He seems ugly, yet greeting the hosts, he is no uglier than any other man on the floor, and no woman on the floor is necessarily prettier than her. Perhaps they simply go poorly together.
For instance: most admirers think him a midget, though face-to-face he meets the hosts in the eyes. It is that she stands too tall, with legs needlessly long, making the stout fellow seem downright squat. And he is pudgy, of course, a little thicker around the middle every year, and she wears far too much green. A skirt and bow, surely, but also a scarf and beret? It is garish, and he abets her fashion crimes, holding a peppermint tote bag or avocado jacket when she finally tires of it. And he's such a retch on the dance floor, barely able to keep up with her even if he leads, and he's suffering asthma in a chair in the corner in less than a quarter-hour. She drags his shame in here. It's all her fault, except he never complains, never seems to even be bothered by her enthusiasm, even when it's robbed him of breath and health. So it's all his fault.
And though she's not exceptionally slender or fair or flesh, she must have some tawdry hooks dug in his plump flesh. She's leading him along into here, the manipulations of young lust, and so it's her fault. Even if he leers after her less than half the boys here leer after their half of the girls, and even if she never subtly dispatches him for drinks by mentioning a thirst rather than making a request, or otherwise seems to passively use him as the women of the ball are ought to.