CHAPTER XXII.
A FAIRY TALE THAT CAME TRUE.
Toward 10 o’clock Louise Hathaway decides that she has witnessed enough of the brilliant panorama to warrant her in returning to the hotel, and as Cyrus Felton is plainly bored by a scene not attuned to his temperament, Ashley hunts up their wraps, hails a carriage and they are driven to the St. James.
“You will make a night of it, I suppose,” Miss Hathaway remarks, as Ashley prepares to say good-night.
“No; I shall remain only long enough to finish my story for the paper. I wrote the introduction this afternoon. One year’s ball is much the same as another’s. Have you any plans for the morrow?”
“None, except mild sight-seeing. Will you not lunch with us?”
“I shall be delighted,” murmurs Ashley. To be near Miss Hathaway is pleasure unalloyed; incidentally he desires an opportunity to quietly study Cyrus Felton. “At 1 o’clock, say?” he asks.
“At 1 o’clock. We must thank you again, Mr. Ashley, for your escort this evening.”
“Don’t mention it—again,” smiles Ashley. “I am sorry I cannot ask you to assist in my work to-morrow. It would be fully as interesting and more to your taste, likely, than the French ball.”
“Then it cannot be a political meeting.”