"Constance," he broke in passionately, "I have no right to speak to you, I know; but tell me just this, if--if----"
Alas! for Adrien. Alas! for poor Lady Constance. The book in Miss Penelope's hand had slid quickly from her grasp, as she sat dozing near the fire-place. At this, the most critical moment, it came with a sudden crash to the floor, and Miss Penelope opened her eyes, and sat up briskly.
Nothing more could be said under the circumstances, and Adrien was perforce obliged to spend the evening as best he might, turning over the pages of his cousin's music, and watching her with longing, ardent eyes; while Miss Penelope sat near by, tactlessly wide awake.
Presently she glanced up.
"Adrien, did you ask your father about the ball?" she asked.
Her nephew looked abashed. Truth to tell, he had completely forgotten it.
"No," he admitted candidly, "I did not. But forgive me, this time; I will ask him to-night."
A little later the ladies rose to retire.
"Good-night, my dear boy," said Miss Penelope, gathering up her precious book and chocolates. "You go to town to-morrow? Oh, then, I shall not see you again. Good-bye; and don't forget about the ball."
Adrien held the door open for her, and she passed out; then he closed it again.