She did not give up all her time to pleasure. She drove with her guardian on pleasant days; he had left off riding now, but he sent her out occasionally with Mr. Bartram, lest she should get out of practice, he said. Then she read to him, or they took up French. She made merry over her blunders.
The autumn was long and warm. They sat in the garden in the sunshine, or walked up and down. Now and then he went to the office, when there were some important matters on hand.
Madame Clerval gave a dance after she had her house set in order. It might have been called a ball. It was mostly for the young people; she was just as fond of them as ever, and secretly admitted that she didn't enjoy prosy old people, who could talk of nothing but their pains and aches, and how fast the country was going to ruin.
"Do you think Mr. Bartram would consider it a nuisance to come for me?" she asked of her guardian, with a face like a peony.
"Why, no, child. Madame made quite a point of his coming. He is growing old too fast."
"Why, he isn't old," she said rather indignantly. "And you see—it's hard sometimes not to offend this one or that one, and if he is really coming, will you ask him to bring me home? Wouldn't you prefer it?"
"I think I would;" very gravely, though he wanted to smile.
Wetherell and Arthur Pemberton were pushing each other for her favors, and she tried to distribute them impartially.
The dance was a splendid success, and the dainty supper had a French air. Mr. Bartram came in just before that. Daffodil was engaged, of course. Madame provided him with a charming partner.
There was only a galop afterward. At private affairs it was not considered good taste to stay after midnight. Mr. Bartram made his way to Daffodil, and asked her if she was ready to go, and she nodded gracefully.