Ned dressed for the ball with particular care. He was to constitute himself of madame’s party, and for that purpose had engaged to dine with it before the event. The meal was a desultory one, the ladies’ toilettes serving as excuse for an unpunctuality that was generally opposed to the principles of la gouvernante. But, one by one, all took their places at the table—Mademoiselle d’Orléans, in a fine-powdered head-dress, having a single feather in it like a cockade, and with her little plaintive rabbit eyes looking from a soft mist of fur; Pamela, sweet and roguish, wearing her own brown curls filleted with a double ribbon of yellow; and Mademoiselle Sercey, another young relative of madame’s, and an inconsiderable item of the household at Bury. There were also accommodated with places three or four of the Bœotians before referred to—silent, awkward men, painfully conscious of their quasi-elevation, who sat below the salt and talked together in whispers.
Mr Sheridan came in late. He had compromised with his grief so far as to exchange his black stockings for white, and to wear a diamond brooch in his breast linen. His hair was powdered and tied into a black ribbon. Ned must acknowledge to himself that he looked a very engaging gentleman.
He sparkled with fun and frolic, and he fed the sparkle liberally from the long glass that stood beside him.
“Mademoiselle,” he said to the princess, “your hair is very pretty. Love hath nested in it, and is hidden all but his wing. But is it not ill-manners to keep him whispering into your ear in company?”
“He talk only of the folly of flattery, monsieur,” said the little lady, simpering and bashful.
“A ruse,” cried the other, “that he learned when he played the monk. Beware of him most when he preaches.”
“Mademoiselle is told to beware of you, monsieur,” said Pamela to a gravely ecstatic young gentleman who sat next to her.
“Of me?”
“Are you not then the monk, the airmeet; and is it not mademoiselle’s ear you seek?”
“No,” said Ned brusquely.