"I will go to her now," says Lilian, and she and Guy, going up-stairs, make their way to Lady Chetwoode's room.
"Better, auntie?" asks Lilian, bending over her, as she sits in her comfortable arm-chair.
"Rather better, darling," returns auntie, who is now feeling as well as possible (though it is yet too soon to admit it even to herself), and who has just finished a cutlet, and a glass of the rare old port so strongly recommended by Dr. Bland. "Guy, bring over that chair for Lilian. Sitting up late at night always upsets me."
"It was a horrible ball," says Miss Lilian, ungratefully. "I didn't enjoy it one bit."
"No?" in amazement. "My dear, you surprise me. I thought I had never seen you look so joyous in my life."
"It was all forced gayety," with a little laugh. "My heart was slowly breaking all the time. I wanted to dance with one person, who obstinately refused to ask me, and so spoiled my entire evening. Was it not cruel of that 'one person'?"
"The fact is," says Guy, addressing his mother, "she behaved so infamously, and flirted so disgracefully, all night, that the 'one person' was quite afraid to approach her."
"I fear you did flirt a little," says Lady Chetwoode, gentle reproof in her tone; "that handsome young man you were dancing with just before I left—and who seemed so devoted—hardly went home heart-whole. That was naughty, darling, wasn't it? You should think of—of—other people's feelings." It is palpable to both her hearers she is alluding to Chesney.
"Auntie," says Miss Chesney, promptly, and with the utmost naïveté, "if you scold me, I feel sure you will bring on that nasty headache again."