“Forgive me,” answered John, humbly. And Gracie knew that he was still her friend; and Arthur’s too.
And so, no more was said between them; and when, the minuet was finished, Gracie and poor Mamie went home together and Lionel Derwent went away with John. Mamie tore the flower from her breast, and threw herself upon her bed in a burst of tears; and Gracie sat with her till the streaks of dawn appeared.
But Flossie and Kitty Farnum still danced on, untired; and all men were divided which of these had been the queen of the famous ball. Already had the business of the work-day world begun when Flossie took her leave, and went back to the dressing-room, and put on her satin cloak, and came down the grand staircase, looking strangely brilliant, younger than ever, people said, with her blazing diamonds and not one ribbon out of place about her perfect dress. She went down the carpeted pavilion, Caryl Wemyss putting the ermine sortie de bal with careful touch about her shoulders.
No one but a policeman and a little crowd of street boys saw them go, as she got quickly into Caryl Wemyss’s carriage and drove off.
CHAPTER XXXV.
SORTIE DU BAL.
THE rain, that had come after the snow, had ceased in its turn, blown clear, like some light curtain, by a blast of northwest wind. Mr. Wemyss, as he entered the carriage, had ventured to lift her hand once to his lips; and then they both sat silent, Flossie looking thoughtfully out of the carriage window, her companion on the front seat looking at her.
It was already freezing; for the horses dragged them heavily through the crackling snow; and Flossie could see that the pools of water in the street were already needle-pointed with the forming ice. As they passed the cross-streets, she noticed a ruddy reflection on the face of these. “Can that be dawn already?” She let down the window; and, looking out, saw all the east a lowering, lurid red.
“I do not think so,” said Mr. Wemyss. “’Tis hardly six o’clock. It must be some great fire at Brooklyn, or at Williamsburgh.”