"We are late, my dear Q.M. This is not carnival time, remember. We jump early."
The rooms were—but I cannot be at the pains of describing them. The reader knows what Sévres and Aubusson, St. Gobain, Barbédienne, Fourdinois, Jeanseline, Tahan, and the rest, can do for a first floor within a stone's throw of the Boulevard des Italiens. The fashion in all its most striking aspects is here. The presents lie thick as autumn leaves. The bonne says you might fill a portmanteau with madame's fans. Bertram is recognised by a dozen ladies at once. The lady of the house receives me with the lowest curtsey. No ambassadress could be more gracieuse. The toilettes are amazing. It is early, after all Bertram's impatience. The state is that of a duchesse for the present. Bertram leaves me and is lost in the crowd. The conversation is measured and orderly. The dancing begins, and I figure in the quadrille of honour. I am giving my partner—a dark-eyed, vivacious lady—an ice, when I am tapped upon the shoulder by Cosmo Bertram. Bertram has a lady on his arm. He turns to her, saying—
"Permit me to present my friend to you, Madame Trefoil——"
"What! Mrs. Daker!" I cried.
Mrs. Daker's still sweet eyes fell upon me; and she shook my hand; and by her commanding calmness smothered my astonishment, so that the bystanders should not see it.
Later in the evening she said—passing me in the crowd—"Come and see me."
I did not—I could not—next morning, tell Lucy nor Mrs. Rowe.