“Are you ill? What is the matter? There’s blood on your face. Hang it all! you hurt me. What has been wrong? Has Marie refused you?”
“Will you be silent?”
“No,” said the boy with spirit; “I will know. I saw Marie come in here. What has happened? Have you been playing some—”
“Rehearsing only!” cried Glen, with a forced laugh.
“Rehearsing! Are they going to have amateur theatricals?”
“No, no: real—a social comedy,” cried Glen.
“A social comedy! I say, old man, haven’t you had too much champagne? But are they going to act something? I should like to be in it. What is the piece?”
“The scapegoat!” cried Glen, with a laugh; “and I play the goat.”
“Look here, old man, I’ll see you into a cab. Let’s get out this way. I’ve a couple more dances I must have before I go. I wouldn’t go back into the drawing-room if I were you. Come along.”
With his senses seeming to reel, Glen took the arm offered to him, and allowed himself to be led out into the hall, Dick helping him on with his coat and seeing him in a hansom before returning to the drawing-room, where the band was playing another waltz.