“No,” seizing a pair of carvers as he spoke. “Just at present I prefer to explore the contents of this most interesting-looking raised pie.”
CHAPTER XXIX.
MARK JERVIS IS UNMASKED.
At nine o’clock—Indian balls are punctual and early—many lights were to be seen converging in all directions towards the club. The oldest inhabitant scarcely recognized it, it was so completely metamorphosed, and turned back to front and upside down. The general effect was dazzling—Persian carpets, rich draperies, Chinese lanterns, Japanese screens, great palms, abounded in the verandahs, and the ball-room was a blaze of candles, mirrors, and pink muslin. The reception rooms were blocked up by girls and men, busy with programmes and pencils.
Among the girls, no one was so closely besieged as Honor Gordon. She was looking quite lovely, in a new white ball-dress, with a diamond star among her dark locks (Uncle Pelham’s birthday gift). As for Mrs. Brande, in a black gown, no one had ever seen her attired to such advantage. She was both handsome and dignified in her velvet and diamonds, so different to her usual parti-coloured “reach-me-down” costumes. Honor had composed the costume, and it did her credit.
Dancing commenced with all the go and briskness of a hill ball. There were no lazy, lounging men in doorways, and but few wallflowers; moreover, there were a good many new faces, and not a few pretty new frocks. It was going to be a brilliant success.
“I have come to Shirani for six seasons,” said Mrs. Brande to Mark (they were sitting out a dance), “and I ought to know the club well. But I give you my word I don’t know which room I am in!” (A higher compliment was impossible.) “I have never seen anything like this! Where did you get such grand ideas? and such extravagant notions, eh? for I may say that you have managed this ball.”
Mark laughed rather constrainedly, and made no reply.
“So I hear your cousin is engaged to Miss Potter?” continued the lady.
“So I am told—but not by himself. I rather expected him here to-night.”
“Money to money, of course,” pursued the matron, discontentedly; “and poverty marries poverty. There is Honor—she is so afraid of what people may think, that she is barely civil to any one who has a penny beyond his pay. She is downright stand-off with Sir Gloster and Captain Waring. She will marry a pauper, of course, if she ever marries, and be poor and proud till she goes down to her grave!”