‘Well, Miss Coningham?’ I rejoined, but bitterly, I suppose.
‘What’s the matter?’ she retorted sharply, looking up at me, full in the face, whether in real or feigned anger I could not tell.
‘How could you talk of that fellow as you did, and then talk so to him?’
‘What right have you to put such questions to me? I am not aware of any intimacy to justify it.’
‘Then I beg your pardon. But my surprise remains the same.’
‘Why, you silly boy!’ she returned, laughing aloud, ‘don’t you know he is, or will be, my feudal lord. I am bound to be polite to him. What would become of poor grandpapa if I were to give him offence? Besides, I have been in the house with him for a week. He’s not a Crichton; but he dances well. Are you going to the ball?’
‘I never heard of it. I have not for weeks thought of anything but—but—my writing, till this morning. Now I fear I shall find it difficult to return to it. It looks ages since I saddled the mare!’
‘But if you’re ever to be an author, it won’t do to shut yourself up. You ought to see as much of the world as you can. I should strongly advise you to go to the ball.’
‘I would willingly obey you—but—but—I don’t know how to get a ticket.’
‘Oh! if you would like to go, papa will have much pleasure in managing that. I will ask him.’