While the poor lady was trying to adjust herself to this sight, and explaining for the sixth time why she was there, and making bitter remarks about a young girl going to a ball in what she (Mrs. Wyburn) called trousers, and while Daphne kept on wrapping herself in the folds of her cloak and then undoing them again to show her nice high boots, she was still more distressed at the arrival of her bête noire and mortal enemy, Harry de Freyne.
Van Buren had sent his motor for them, containing Harry.
Had his name not been announced by the servant, Mrs. Wyburn would certainly not have recognised Harry. He was a pierrot in white satin, with a violet tulle ruffle round his neck and a black velvet mask. One would know him solely by his single eye-glass, his pleasant voice, and fluent conversation.
Pretending to be a clown he jumped in, bowed low to Mrs. Wyburn, and kissed first Daphne and then Valentia.
With a last-straw expression Mrs. Wyburn drew herself up to her full height.
"Give me my cloak, Romer. I must go. No, don't come to the carriage with me. Suppose the Trott-Hellyers were to see you—they'd never get over it!"
"Why, it's all right, mother," Romer answered. "I'm all right. I'm a courtier—of the tenth century—you know. I'm all right."
"And you approve of your young sister-in-law going to a public ball dressed up as a man?"
"Rosalind wasn't a man, mother. You forget; you must read the Midsummer Night's Dream again. You've forgotten it."
"I shan't find Rosalind there. But that's not the point. When I came in I found Valentia with that man—the man who writes in purple knickerbockers——"