"I shall not leave home to-day, mamma," was the reply.
"But you know, my dear, I must call upon the Montagus at four."
"Lady Lysson will willingly accompany you; I know she too purposes a visit to them."
"But your resolution is sudden, Dora; to-day you promised to go with me at four."
"My head aches," she answered coldly; "pray excuse me."
"Oh! if that be the case," replied her ladyship, "I can urge no more; you had better lie down, my dear child, and prepare yourself for the evening's fatigue."
"No, thank you, mamma; with your permission I shall remain here—I have a letter to write."
She never once looked up, but a man the least vain might have fancied, as Tremenhere did, that "the morrow" of the bal masqué, was presented to his view, especially after what Lord Randolph had said about his returning with the ticket for the theatre. Making their adieux, the gentlemen left with the understanding that one or both should return, after calling at the Français to secure the box.
For a moment Tremenhere hesitated how to act. He asked himself whether his conduct was right towards his friend—the title he gave him in his heart decided him. "She is unworthy of him," he said; "'tis an act of kindness to break off this marriage."
And, consequently at four, he called with the ticket. Lady Dora had been schooling her heart, and received him with perfect composure, much regretting all the trouble he had taken; and she sat with an unfinished letter before her, and the pen between her fingers, as though expecting him to take leave. He read her as an open leaf in a book; and the want of all candour in her disposition made him more than ever resolved to bend her. Every day she had become more warped since he had first seen her; even when he and Minnie had been residing at Chiswick, she could be capable of a generous action; now, not one—she was the world's child!