“What account?”
“Ivinghoe’s, to be sure! Oh! I forgot. You are so much one of us that I did not remember that you did not know how the foolish boy was attracted—no, that’s too strong a word—but she thought he was, when they were here to open Rotherwood Park. He did flirt, and Victoria—his mother, I mean—did not like it at all. She would never have come this time, but that I assured her that Maura was safe at Gastein!”
“Is it so very undesirable?”
“My dear! Their father was old White’s brother, a stone-mason. He was raised from the ranks, but his wife was a Greek peasant—and if you had seen her, when the Merrifield children called her the Queen of the White Ants! Ivinghoe is naturally as stiff and formal as his mother, I am not much afraid for him, except that no one knows what that fever will make of a young man, and I don’t want him to get his father into a scrape. There, I have exhaled it to you, and there is a crowd as if the masque was done with.”
It was, and the four hundred auditors were beginning to throng about the stalls, strays coming up from time to time, and reporting with absolute enthusiasm on the music and acting. Marilda was one of these.
“Well, Cherry, I saw no great harm in it after all, and Francie looked sweetly pretty, just as poor Alda did when she first came to us. Lance must make his own excuses to Alda. But Gerald looked horridly ill! He sang very well, but he had such red spots on his cheeks! I’d get Clement’s doctor to sound him. Lord Rotherwood was quite complimentary. Now I must go and buy something—I hear there is the Dirty Boy—I think I shall get it for Fernan’s new baths and wash-houses. Then isn’t there something of yours, Cherry?”
“Not to compete with the Dirty Boy.”
“Ah! now you are laughing at me, Cherry. Quite right, I am glad to hear you do it again.”
The next visitor was Lance.
“Oh, Cherry, how cool you look! Give me a cup of tea—not refreshment-stall tea. That’s right. Little Francie is a perfect gem—looks and voice—not acting—no time for that. Heigh-ho!”