"Have you found that 'little rift' after all, Mrs. Carrington?" asks he gravely.
"Yes—I suppose so," with impatience. Really the man grows very tiresome. "I must have been mad to hope we wretched mortals could have five whole hours of unbroken happiness."
"True:
'Every white must have its blacke,
And every sweete its soure.'"
"Another quotation?" superciliously. I am not in an amiable mood. "You seem to have them ready for all emergencies. How closely you must attend to your poetical studies! How fond of them you must be!"
"I am. Does that surprise you? Do you find a difficulty in associating me with polite verse?"
He has his elbow on his knee; his fingers caress his heavy black mustache. He is regarding me with the profoundest interest.
"I really never thought about it," I return, wearily, with a rather petulant movement of the head.
Oh that this hateful ball was at an end!