“What, mon fils Temple! Why didn't he come and speak to me?”
“He said he had been in search of you all the evening, and even asked me to find you out.”
“These Sevigné curls do that; no one knows me. Monsignore said he thought I was a younger sister just come out, and was going to warn me of the dangerous rivalry. And that was Temple? His little bit of moustache improves him. I suppose they call him good-looking?”
“Very handsome—actually handsome.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed the other, wearily; “one likes these gatherings, but it's always pleasant when they're over; don't you find that?” And not meeting a reply, she went on: “That tiresome man, Sir Marcus Cluff, made a descent upon me, to talk of—what do you think?—the church at Albano. It seems our parson there has nothing to live on during the winter months, and he is expected to be alive and cheery when spring comes round; and Sir Marcus says, that though seals do this, it 's not so easy for a curate; and so I said, 'Why does n't he join the other army? There's a cardinal yonder will take him into his regiment;' and Sir Marcus could n't stand this, and left me.” She paused, and seemed lost in a deep reverie, and then half-murmured rather than said, “What a nice touch he has on the piano; so light and so liquid withal.”
“Sir Marcus, do you mean?”
“Of course I don't,” said she, pettishly. “I'm talking of Pracontal. I 'm sure he sings—he says not, or only for himself; and so I told him he must sing for me, and he replied, 'Willingly, for I shall then be beside myself with happiness.' Just fancy a Frenchman trying to say a smart thing in English. I wonder what the Culduffs will think of him?”
“Are they likely to have an opportunity for an opinion?”
“Most certainly they are. I have asked him for Friday. He will be the seventh at our little dinner.”
“Not possible, Gusta! You could n't have done this!”