In about half an hour the gentleman with whom Miss Larolles had been talking, left the room, and then that young lady, turning suddenly to Cecilia, exclaimed, “How odd Mr Meadows is! Do you know, he says he shan't be well enough to go to Lady Nyland's assembly! How ridiculous! as if that could hurt him.”
Cecilia, surprised at an attack so little ceremonious, lent her a civil, but silent attention.
“You shall be there, shan't you?” she added.
“No, ma'am, I have not the honour of being at all known to her ladyship.”
“Oh, there's nothing in that,” returned she, “for Mrs Harrel can acquaint her you are here, and then, you know, she'll send you a ticket, and then you can go.”
“A ticket?” repeated Cecilia, “does Lady Nyland only admit her company with tickets?”
“Oh, lord!” cried Miss Larolles, laughing immoderately, “don't you know what I mean? Why, a ticket is only a visiting card, with a name upon it; but we all call them tickets now.”
Cecilia thanked her for the information, and then Miss Larolles enquired how many miles she had travelled since morning?
“Seventy-three,” answered Cecilia, “which I hope will plead my apology for being so little dressed.”
“Oh, you're vastly well,” returned the other, “and for my part, I never think about dress. But only conceive what happened to me last year! Do you know I came to town the twentieth of March! was not that horrid provoking?”