"I believe," continued Lord Randolph, "that the masques in olden times—at court and elsewhere—were made the medium of intrigues, state and others; but surely nothing could be more innocent than the one the other night!" Lord Randolph was rather primitive in his ideas as regards a bal masqué a l'opera, even in our days—Lady Dora did not internally agree with him, but she said nothing.
"Have you secured one box for the Français this evening?" asked Lady Ripley, changing the subject. "I quite forgot it," answered Lord Randolph; "come along, Tremenhere, we will go and look for it, and you shall bring it back to the ladies, for I am unavoidably engaged till dinner; of course, you will be of the party?"
"I fear not," he answered; "I have much occupation on hand."
"Nonsense, man! you shut yourself up with your mysterious portrait, till you become perfectly gloomy; it must have a deep interest for you."
"You mistake; 'tis an altar-piece which I am completing to order—a Madonna and child."
"Then, why cover it up so mysteriously?"
"We artists are jealous of our unfinished works being criticised; 'tis, however, not that which would detain me to-night, but another claim."
"Pray, set it aside, and accompany us, Mr. Tremenhere," said Lady Ripley, graciously; Lord Randolph's evident friendship for him, stamped him above what he was before, in her eyes—he still hesitated, when Lady Dora looked up, as if glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, and almost imperceptibly, 'twas so quickly done, her glance crossed his.
"Then I will do as you command," he said, bowing to Lady Ripley; but her daughter felt his eye was upon her, and the command, accentuated for her ear alone.
"We can perhaps spare you the trouble of going to the theatre, if you are engaged," cried Lady Ripley. "Dora, we may as well drive there ourselves."