“Norman said I had turned into a fine lady!” repeated Meta. “Why?”
“Never mind! I don’t think so; you are just like papa’s humming-bird, as you always were, not a bit more of a fine lady than any girl here, and I am sure papa would say so. Only old June had got a bad headache, and is in one of his old dumps, such as I hoped he had left off. But he can’t help it, poor fellow, and he will come out of it, by and by—so never mind. Hallo! why people are going away already. There’s that girl without any one to hand her downstairs.”
Away ran Harry, and presently the brothers and sisters gathered round the fire—George declaring that he was glad that nuisance was so well over, and Harry exclaiming, “Well done, Flora! It was capital fun! I never saw a lot of prettier or more good-natured people in my life. If I am at home for the Stoneborough ball, I wonder whether my father will let me go to it.”
This result of Harry’s successful debut in high life struck his sister and Norman as so absurd that both laughed.
“What’s the matter now?” asked Harry.
“Your comparing Flora’s party to a Stoneborough ball,” said Norman.
“It is all the same, isn’t it?” said Harry. “I’m sure you are equally disgusted at both!”
“Much you know about it,” said Flora, patting him gaily. “I’m not going to put conceit in that lion head of yours, but you were as good as an Indian prince to my party. Do you know to whom you have been talking so coolly?”
“Of course. You see, Norman, it is just as I told you. All civilised people are just alike when they get into a drawing-room.”
“Harry takes large views of the Genus homo,” Norman exerted himself to say. “Being used to the black and brown species, he takes little heed of the lesser varieties.”