“Why didn’t you come before, sir?” said the lady, looking very severely at her swain.
“I was afraid,” he said.
“What, of me, sir?”
“No, no,” he whispered, “I’ve been longing to get near you, but I dared not. Oh, my little darling, how beautiful you look to-night.”
“For shame, Harry; now look here, sir; I will not permit you to be so familiar. The idea of addressing me in such a strain.”
“There,” he sighed, “now you are getting on stilts again, and we were so happy down at Lawford.”
“Yes, but that’s country, and this is town. We are in society now, sir, and we must be very proper.”
“There, my beautiful little tyrant,” he whispered, “I am your slave. I won’t rebel; only reward me sometimes for my patience with a kindly look.”
“Well, if you are very good, perhaps I will,” said Cynthia. “But you did not tell me, Harry, why you were afraid. Ah, that’s right, that tall thin ghost is going to sing, so we can talk.”
In effect, a very cadaverous-looking lady, with an exceedingly startled air, was led by Mr Perry-Morton to the piano, and after he had screwed his eyes up, glanced round the room, and held up a white finger to command silence, the thin lady, who evidently purposely lived upon an unwholesome regimen, to keep herself graceful, fixed her eyes upon one particular piece of blue china near the corner of the room, and began to sing.