I am dimly conscious that darling mother is sitting on a sofa somewhat distant from me, looking as pretty as possible and absolutely flushed with pride and pleasure as she beholds me and my illustrious partner.
Dora, a little further down, is positively delicious in white silk and pink coral—the coral being mine. Her still entertaining for me the old grudge does not prevent her borrowing of me freely such things as she deems may suit her child-like beauty; while I, unable to divest myself of the idea that in some way I have wronged her, and that but for me all these things she borrows would by right be hers, lend to her lavishly from all that I possess.
To-night, however, in spite of the bewitching simplicity of her appearance, I feel no jealous pangs. "For this night only," I will consider myself as charming as Dora.
"Rather think it will be a severe season. You hunt?" asks his Grace, in rather high, jerky tones, having come to the conclusion, I presume, that he ought to say something.
I answer him to the intent that I do not; that in fact—lowering to my pride as it may be to confess it—I would rather be afraid to do so.
He regards me with much interest and approval.
"Quite right; quite right," he says. "Ladies are—ha—charming you know, of course, and that—but in a hunting-field—a mistake."
I laugh, and suggest amiably he is not over-gallant.
"No—no? really! Have I said anything rude? Can't apply to you, you know, Mrs. Carrington, as you say you have no ambition to be in at the death. Women, as a rule, never are, you know; they are generally in a drain by that time; and if a man sees them, unless he wants to be considered a brute for life, he must stop and pull 'em out It takes nice feelings to do that gracefully, and with a due regard to proper language, in the middle of a good run. Charming girl, Miss Beatoun."
"Very."