Louise nods.
“Are they now residing in the city?”
“No; they are not now in this country—I should say this part of the country,” she adds, hastily.
For a moment a silence falls and both absently sip their chocolate, busy with their thoughts. Then Ashley remarks, smilingly:
“Apropos of nothing, Miss Hathaway, did you ever hear of the great French ball, the annual terpsichorean revel of Gotham?”
“Certainly, I have read about it. I gather that it is not always strictly—well, not exactly in the same category with the patriarchs’ ball.”
“No—not precisely,” admits Ashley. “What I was leading up to is this: I suppose I shall be assigned to do the ball for the Hemisphere to-morrow evening—I have done it for the last two years—and a friend of mine kindly presented to me a pocketful of tickets. Now, I know you would enjoy looking in on the brilliant scene for an hour or two in the early part of the evening.”
“Why, Mr. Ashley, I really do not see how we could. It would hardly be proper.”
“Not perhaps to mingle with the rush, but as a casual looker-on in Verona the propriety could scarcely be questioned. A mask, a box where you could sit and listen to the really good music and watch the glitter and gayety, I believe you would recall the hour whiled away as one of thorough enjoyment. Besides—and here is the selfish part of my proposition—it would render the affair less of an old story to me. You must really say ‘yes,’” persists Ashley, as Miss Hathaway hesitates, with the inevitable result.
“Well, if Mr. Felton is willing to pose as a ‘chaperon’ for a brief space, perhaps I may consent to assist the Hemisphere.”