'I shall call to-morrow,' he said anxiously, almost gruffly. 'Shall you be in?'
She nodded, and he left her; she did not watch him depart.
'May I have the honour, gracious lady?'
It was the conductor of the opera who addressed her in his even, apparently sarcastic tones.
'I'm afraid I must rest a bit,' she said, smiling quite naturally. 'I've hurt my foot a little—Oh, it's nothing, it's nothing. But I must sit still for a bit.'
She could not comprehend why, unintentionally and without design, she should have told this stupid lie, and told it so persuasively. She foresaw how the tedious consequences of the fiction might continue throughout the evening. For a moment she had the idea of announcing a sprained ankle and of returning home at once. But the thought of old Dr. Hawley's presence in the building deterred her. She perceived that her foot must get gradually better, and that she must be resigned.
'Oh, mamma!' cried Rose, coming up to her. 'Just fancy Mr. Twemlow being back again! But why did you let him leave?'
'Has he gone?'
'Yes. He just saw me on the stairs, and told me he must catch the last car to Knype.'
'Our dance, I think, Miss Rose,' said a young man with a gardenia, and Rose, flushed and sparkling, was carried off. The ball proceeded.