“I 've made a little dinner for you for Friday,” said Lady Augusta to her sister. “The Culduff s and Monsignore Ratti—that, with Tonino and ourselves, will be six; and I 'll think of another: we can't be an even number. Marion is heart-broken about coming; indeed, I 'm not sure we shall see her, after all.”
“Are we so very terrible then?” asked the Countess.
“Not you, dearest; it is I am the dreadful one. I took that old fop a canter into the peerage, and he was so delighted to escape from Bramleighia, that he looked softly into my eyes, and held my hand so unnecessarily long, that she became actually sick with anger. Now, I 'm resolved that the old Lord shall be one of my adorers.”
“Oh, Gusta!”
“Yes. I say it calmly and advisedly; that young woman must be taught better manners than to pat the ground impatiently with her foot and to toss her head away when one is talking to her husband. Oh, there's that poor Count Pracontal waiting for me, and looking so piteously at me; I forgot I promised to take him a tour through the rooms, and tell him who everybody is.”
The company began to thin off soon after midnight, and by one o'clock the Countess and her sister found themselves standing by a fireplace in a deserted salon, while the servants passed to and fro extinguishing the lights.
“Who was that you took leave of with such emphatic courtesy a few minutes ago?” asked Lady Augusta, as she leaned on the chimney-piece.
“Don't you know; don't you remember him?”
“Not in the least.”
“It was Mr. Temple Bramleigh.”