"Oh, mercy!" she cried, looking around discovering the boy Noah St. Clair, whom every one had forgotten seated on a footstool behind her, who said vengefully, indicating by a gesture Mrs. St. Clair and himself, "That's our name; it's us."
"Gracious, Mrs. Gower, what have I done? Pardon me, I was under the impression that this lady's name was Cobbe. I don't know how I got things muddled; I thought she was some relative of our Mr. Cobbe."
"Never mind, dear; I should have introduced you; don't apologize; there are other St. Clairs in Toronto than my friends."
"I don't mind it in the least," purred the pretty doll; "some one is always talking about me. Women are jealous of my complexion and all my admirers; but I think my name is prettier than Cobbe."
"Yet 'tell my name again to me,' am always here at beauty's call," said Mr. Cobbe, hearing his name on entering with the other gentlemen.
"You, as a Bona Dea, have been our toast, Mrs. Gower," said Buckingham, quietly, as he sank into a chair near her own.
"And my inclinations, I hope," she said, laughingly, "with no saving clause as to their being virtuous."
"I appeal to your memory of the 'Antiquary,' Mrs. Gower; could any man living toast you as the Rev. Mr. Battergowl did Miss Grisel Monkbarns?"
"I don't know; perhaps some would desire to make a proviso."
"Then they would err; I should give a woman of your stamp any length of line."