"Hallo!" he called back. "What is it? Want me to come and admire you in your warpaint, I suppose? Shan't! Tired of admiring you!"
"Oh, hush, hush!" said Leslie, blushing like a rose. "Lady Springmore is here, Yorke. She has come to tell us that—that Lady Eleanor Dallas is coming to-night."
"The devil!"
"No, dear, Lady Eleanor," said Leslie, sweetly and naively.
He came to the door and poked his head round; then he saw by her face what he was expected to say, and said it like a good and docile husband.
"Delighted to see any guest of yours, Lady Springmore!" he said, bobbing his head at her, and promptly disappeared.
An hour or two later, when the ball was in full swing, Leslie heard the footman announce Lady Eleanor Dallas.
She had been waiting for it, and was prepared. Lady Eleanor entered. She was thinner, and looked pale, and rather listless, and the air of pride and hauteur were more pronounced than of old.
Superbly dressed, she moved through the crowd with a faint smile of greeting for her acquaintances; then suddenly she saw Leslie. She stopped for just one instant, and the blood rushed to her face; then she came toward her, and, Leslie coming forward too, they met each other half way, so to speak.
The few conventional words were spoken, and by that time Lady Eleanor had recovered her presence of mind, and was once more the stately, haughty patrician who suffers and is silent.