“You surely will come with me? If you don’t, I shan’t be able to go at all. Lady Mary and I were going together, and now she’s sick!”
Mirabelle opened her eyes wider.
“But I can’t go, surely. It is a fancy dress ball, isn’t it? I read something about it in the papers. And I’m awfully tired to-night.”
Joan pouted prettily.
“My dear, if you lay down for an hour you’d be fit. Besides, you couldn’t sleep here early to-night: Monty’s having one of his men parties, and they’re a noisy lot of people—though thoroughly respectable,” she added hastily.
Poor Joan had a mission outside her usual range.
“I’d love to go,”—Mirabelle was anxious not to be a kill-joy,—“if I could get a dress.”
“I’ve got one,” said the girl promptly, and ran out of the room.
She returned very quickly, and threw the domino on the bed.
“It’s not pretty to look at, but it’s got this advantage, that you can wear almost anything underneath.”