Mrs. Browne struggled instantly to her feet.
“I’m just comin’, my dear,—comin’ this minute,” she said, in a voice whose nervousness struck Nellie as strangely pathetic. “I thought the folk wouldn’t be missin’ me just for a bit.”
“Oh, I never expect you to do things like other hostesses,” her daughter answered rudely. Then she turned to Nellie.
“I don’t know what you want to run away like [207] ]this for; I shall begin to think you’re not enjoying yourself. Come, we’re going into the ballroom to have a dance or two: can you do the cotillon?”
She swept her away to the lights and music again, to fresh vexation of spirit that self-forgetfulness for a time had made less keen.
In the midst of a waltz with her odious dinner companion Nell caught sight of her so-called hostess, who had followed her daughter back to the room.
She was sitting, poor fat old creature, on a stiff chair near the wall, blinking patiently at the dancers, the large set smile on her face again, and a headache pucker on her forehead.
To Nellie the one bright spot in that dreadful evening was the thought of her touching, surprised gratitude at the trifling service she had done her.
“I just wish you was my little girl!” was her wistful speech at parting, when twelve o’clock put an end to the revels,—“oh, ’ow I wish you was my little girl!”