It was half-past three; the last waltz had been waltzed, the last light extinguished, the last carriage had rolled away.
Bertie, on his road to Albert Hall Mansions, was dreaming dreams; and Reuben, as he tossed on his sleepless bed, pondering plans for the coming contest, was disagreeably haunted by the recollection of some white chrysanthemums which he had let fall—on purpose.
“It has been a great success,” said Judith, passing by her cousin and going towards her own room.
Rose followed her, and sitting down on the bed, began drawing out the pins from her elaborately dressed hair.
“Yes, I think it went off all right. Caroline Cardozo stuck now and then, and no one would dance with poor Alec, so I had to take him round myself.”
Judith laughed. She had danced straight through the programme, had eaten supper, had talked gaily in the intervals of dancing. Rose got up from the bed and went over to Judith.
“Please unfasten my bodice. I have sent Marie to bed.”
Then, as Judith complied:
“What was Reuben telling Adelaide, and why did he make off so soon?”
“Mr. Ronaldson, the member for St. Baldwin’s, is dead. A man came and shouted the news down the street.”