My father at last leaned over towards Madame, and I. heard the word “coffee.” She arose and took his arm, and we all followed them to the drawing-room.
“I 'm right glad it's over,” said Hotham, as he poured his brandy over his coffee. “I've sat out a court-martial that wasn't slower than that dinner.”
“But what's the meaning of it all?” asked another. “Why and how came all these apologies?”
“You 'd better ask Cleremont, or rather his wife,” muttered Hotham, and moved away.
“You ought to get into the open air; that's the best thing for you,” I heard Cleremont say to his wife; but there was such a thorough indifference in the tone, it sounded less like a kindness than a sarcasm. She, however, drew a shawl around her, and moved down the steps into the garden. My father soon after retired to his own room, and Cleremont laughingly said, “There are no women here, and we may have a cigar;” and he threw his case across the table. The whole party were soon immersed in smoke.
I saw that my presence imposed some restraint on the conversation, and soon sought my room with a much sadder spirit and a heavier heart than I had left it two hours before.
CHAPTER XII. THE BALL
Musing and thinking and fretting together, I had fallen asleep on my sofa, and was awakened by Mr. Nixon lighting my candles, and asking me, in a very mild voice, if I felt unwell.
“No, nothing of the kind.”