'And you, I suppose, have permission,' began the steward, when Mrs. Chris with a hasty look-half of appeal--at her husband, interrupted gaily--
'Oh, he is mutiny too. The fashion in dress-clothes has not changed.'
'Excuse me,' said Chris in a loud voice. 'I come as an English gentleman of the nineteenth century. It is fancy dress for me, sir. Are you ready, Viva?'
The white shoulders did slip from the lace and the roses with the half-petulant, half-tolerant shrug they gave, and which expressed, as plain as words could have done, the owner's mental position. If Chris chose to take that line and make a fool of himself, it did not concern her. She meant to enjoy herself.
'Execrable taste!' remarked the steward at the other door whose business was with the ball programmes.
'Which?' asked his neighbour pointedly.
'Oh, both. But the mutiny idea is the worst. Who the deuce started it?'
'Lucanaster's lot, I believe. We couldn't exactly stop it, if they chose.'
'Well, I hope to goodness Filthy Lucre won't come as John Ellison, or I shall feel it my duty to knock him down.'
'Oh, we barred that sort of thing, of course. And it is really rather a jolly dress'--the speaker gave a glance after the pink tarlatane--'at least, she looks ripping in it.'