She greeted Miss Crokerly effusively, stared, as is perfectly compatible with good manners, at Rosalie from head to foot, became effusive to her, and then bestowed the same greeting upon Sir John. There was no doubt about it, she was a happy and genial woman. She evidently considered them among her guests of honour or chief friendship, for in person she conducted them to a line of seats near to the front. She was dressed in rich black satin, and looked handsome enough to be imposing.
On the way she talked much to Miss Crokerly, but looked much at Rosalie, her dress, her face, the curious little animal upon her shoulder.
Beyond a certain interest, Rosalie read nothing in her glance. Then when they were seated, she passed away again, and Rosalie found time to look around. Everything and everybody were very brilliant. And she recognised some of her new acquaintances, but none more intimate. At last she whispered to Miss Crokerly—Sir John had left them for the moment:
“Where is the Golden Priest Alphonso?”
Miss Crokerly’s sharp eyes travelled round the assembly.
“He is not here yet,” said she. “Of course I don’t know, but I expect that he will come. There is Lady Flamington and her husband. Is she not beautiful? but very sad-looking.”
“Lady Flamington—Lady Flamington! Oh! where is she?” said Rosalie, in an eager voice.
But just then the lady spoken of, who was sitting some distance to the right a row in front, turned round, and seeing Miss Crokerly, rose and came toward her. Her smile was very pleasant.
“I am deserting my husband for better company,” said she. “I dragged him here against his will, low be it spoken, and am paying the penalty in sulks. Your brother is easier to manage, Miss Crokerly.”
“The privilege of management is not mine. I am only his sister.”