With the record of her niece’s partners in her hand, Mrs. Fenchurch seated herself, squarely, comfortably, and sociably on the bed, and proceeded to discuss the ball, and its incidents, with all the zest and vivacity of one of the girl’s own contemporaries.
“How well I remember my first ball,” she said meditatively; “I was so frightened my teeth actually chattered as we drove to it, and, after all, I enjoyed myself enormously. I wore white, of course, looped up with water lilies, and I remember a spiteful cousin asking me if they were not spinach and eggs! Girls are so jealous! Now let me see who you danced with—um—um—um——” nodding her head as her eyes travelled over the card. “Lord Deloraine twice—but, of course, he is married—and what about the Duke?” looking up quickly.
“I had not a dance left.”
“Who is V. K.? Oh yes, I know—the Austrian Attaché staying with the Beauvoirs. H. B., H. B., H. B. Oh, Letty! How often did you dance with Hugo Blagdon?”
“Two or three times,” she answered stiffly, having made up her mind to give her aunt no satisfaction with respect to this overbearing odious partner.
“He took you in to supper, dear, too,” continued Mrs. Fenchurch; “and, oh yes,” nodding her head and trying to look arch, “I saw you sitting together in the long corridor. Tell me, what did you talk about?” and she gazed into the girl’s face with a pair of penetrating asking eyes.
How Letty wished she would not stare at her in this fashion, and breathe through her nose. Positively her aunt filled her with sheer physical terror—yes, and repulsion.
“I really can’t remember, Aunt Dorothy. I think he said the supper was bad.”
“But surely he paid you some pretty compliment?” persisted her tormentor. “Come now?” she urged coaxingly.