“Ah, that’s better.”
We were now in the ball-room once more, where we were promptly joined by Mr. Somers.
“You look as if you two were quarreling,” he remarked; “so I think I had better separate you at once.”
“Yes, I’m crushed flat. I’m not to talk of my neighbors. We have fought over Miss Chalgrove.”
“Indeed! That is strange, for she and I have just had a severe passage-at-arms.”
“Oh, that does not surprise me! It’s quite en règle,” and he grinned significantly.
Mr. Somers took no notice of the impudent hint, but said, “It’s about a horse she will ride, in spite of her father or any one—a steeplechaser she has picked up—and she is bound to have some nasty accident if some one does not shoot him. I’ve a good mind to shoot him myself, although he is a magnificent fencer, and can go all day—a French horse, called Diable Vert.”
“Oh, by Jove! I know him—a real nasty-tempered brute. He won two or three good races, and then cut up rusty. They say he killed a jockey at Auteuil.”
I stood against the wall between the two men as they talked, and noticed that the sofas were occupied, the recesses of the windows full of lookers-on. Lady Bloss and her daughter were sitting together, and surveying me and my companions with unaffected interest. The former presently beckoned to me to approach. I did so, rather reluctantly, followed by my two cavaliers, whilst Sir Fulke hovered at a little distance.
“Oh, good evening, Miss Hayes,” said Lady Bloss, in her loftiest manner. “So surprised to see you here!”—looking me slowly up and down. “Pray, where is Mrs. Hayes?”