“Not at all,” responded the young man. “I merely wished to enquire of Miss Ashley and Mademoiselle d’Aucourt the colour of the respective gowns with which they intend to dazzle our eyes to-morrow night, and whether——”
“Oh, by Gad!” interrupted Sir William, “to remain is indiscreet. Secrets of the toilet! I’m off. Come, George.”
“No,” said his son. “I am going to stay,” and he sauntered to a chair and sat down.
“Papa, do be quiet!” urged Amelia. “Do let us all be seated, and Mr Trenchard can deliver himself of his message in comfort.”
“I do not think,” put in George Ashley, unmoved, “that Trenchard has any business to ask that question. I stayed on purpose to remonstrate, and I suggest that it be not answered.”
“Wait till you hear why I asked it,” retorted the master of Dewlands. “Ladies, I was going very humbly to beg your permission to present you to-morrow with a few flowers, if there were any prospect of your honouring me by wearing them. And so the colours you would prefer . . .”
Amelia rose and swept him a curtsy. “You have the most charming ideas, sir! We are immensely obliged to you, Lucienne and I.”
“You will really condescend to wear them? Then what may I offer you?”
“Present Amelia with a nosegay of holly,” suggested her brother. “I can conceive its becoming her well.”
“But not my dress, thank you,” responded Miss Ashley. “Let us be serious, for this is a serious question.”