Trenchard went and bent over Lucienne. “And you, Mademoiselle?” he asked in a lower tone.
“I shall wear lilac, Monsieur,” answered the girl softly. “I am still in half-mourning for my mother, you know. If I were at home I should not perhaps be going to a ball. But here Madame permits me to go.”
“Indeed, I should hope so,” murmured the Englishman to himself. “Then, Mademoiselle, would you permit me to offer you a few violets?”
“Ah, no, Monsieur!” said Lucienne suddenly; “not violets!”
“You dislike violets?”
“I would rather not wear them,” said Lucienne.
“What, Lucy?” exclaimed Sir William, overhearing, where he stood leaning against the harpsichord, his hands in his pockets. “You dislike the violet—the modest violet, the flower so suitable to a young girl! Fie!”
“Oh no!” said Lucienne, confused. “I never said that I disliked them. I . . . I would rather not . . . I mean, if Mr Trenchard were so kind as to offer me anything else.”
“Aha!” exclaimed her host, chuckling. “Now I see the reason!” And approaching Lucienne he bent down and observed in a tone perfectly audible to the whole assembly: “A little sentimental reason connected with Gilbert, is it not, my dear? Quite right—quite right and proper!”
Lucienne flushed crimson, and precisely at that moment the Marquise entered the room.