“The dancing has done me good,” Caroline said, and she lingered on the pavement to look at the stars, holding her skirts high in the happy knowledge of her unrivalled legs and feet. “No, Sophia, I am not cold, or tired; but yes, I’ll take a little soup.”
They sat round the roaring fire prepared for them and drank the soup out of fine old cups. Caroline chattered; she was gay; she believed she had been a great success; young men had paid court to her; she had rapped at least one of them with her fan; a grey-haired man had talked to her of her lively past. But Sophia had much ado to prevent her heavy head from nodding. Henrietta was silent, very busy with her thoughts and careful to avoid the eyes of Rose.
“I think,” Caroline said, “we ought to give a little dance. We could have this carpet up. Just a little dance—”
“But Henrietta and I,” Rose said distinctly, “are going away.”
“Oh, nonsense! You must put it off. We ought to give a dance for the child. Now, how many couples? Ten, at least. Sophia, you’re asleep.”
“No, dear. A party. I heard. But if you’re ready now, I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Go along. I’ll follow.”
“Oh, no, Caroline, we always go together.”
“Well, well, I’ll come, but I could stay here and talk for hours. I could always sit you out and dance you out, couldn’t I?”
“Yes, dear. You’re wonderful. Such spirit!”