"Oh, a few. I had rather meet them anywhere than in such a crowd, though."
"Wonderful, isn't it?" murmured Dymchurch, with a comical distress in his eyebrows. "Wonderful!"
Good-naturedly nodding, he moved away, and was lost to sight. Dyce, holding his place near the entrance, perceived at length another face that he knew—that of a lady with whom he had recently dined at this house; in her company came Constance Bride and May Tomalin. He all but bounded to meet them. Constance looked well in a garb more ornate than Lashmar had yet seen her wearing; May, glowing with self-satisfaction, made a brilliant appearance. Their chaperon spoke with him; he learned that Lady Ogram did not feel quite equal to an occasion such as this, and had stayed at home. Miss Tomalin, eager to join in the talk, pressed before Constance.
"Have you got your speech ready, Mr. Lashmar?" she asked, with sprightly condescension.
"Quite. How sorry I am that you won't be able to enjoy that masterpiece of eloquence!"
"Oh, but it will be reported. It must be reported, of course."
The chaperon interposed, presenting to Miss Tomalin a gentleman who seemed very desirous of that honour, and Dyce stifled his annoyance in saying apart to Constance:
"What barbarism this is! One might as well try to converse in the middle of the street at Charing Cross."
"Certainly. But people don't come to converse," was the answer.
"You enjoy this kind of thing, I fancy?"