Clearly she was timid; she did not know her power. Her eyes were bluer than ever; her hair was of palest gold, “As I remembered her of old,” he thought to himself, referring to the evening at the end of June. Indeed, there was a poem dated June 28, rather a daring one.
“The kindness is entirely on your side,” he said, “in letting me come, and”—he longed to say—“worship,” but did not quite dare—“and have tea with you.”
“Dear me, that is a selfish sort of kindness,” she said. “Let us go into the garden. I think it was very unkind of you, Mr. Harry, not to come to my dance last week. But of course you Cambridge men have more serious things to think about than little country parties.”
“I thought about nothing else but your dance for days,” said he; “but my tutor simply refused to let me come down for it. A narrow, pedantic fellow, who I don’t suppose ever danced. Tell me about your dress; I like to picture you in a fancy dress.”
She could not help appearing to wish to attract. It was as much the fault of the way her head was set on to her neck, of the colour of her eyes, as of her mind.
“Oh, quite a simple white frock,” she said; “and a few pearls. They—they wanted me to go as Cleopatra. So silly—me with a grown-up daughter. But my husband insisted.”
The fancy dress ball had not been talked about at Mrs. Ames’ lately, and he had heard nothing about it in the two days he had been at home. Both his parents had reason for letting it pass into the region of things that are done with.
“Did mother and father go?” he asked. “I suppose they felt too old to dress up?”
“Oh, no. They came as Antony and Cleopatra. Have they not told you? Cousin Amy looked so—so interesting. And your father was splendid as Mark Antony.”
“Then was Dr. Evans Mark Antony too?” asked Harry.