“I have come for you, dearest,” said the mother.
“Yes, dear mamma.”
“Come for you—come for you,” Mrs. Church repeated, looking down at the relics of our little feast. “I was obliged to ask Mr. Ruck’s assistance. I was puzzled; I thought a long time.”
“Well, Mrs. Church, I was glad to see you puzzled once in your life!” said Mr. Ruck, with friendly jocosity. “But you came pretty straight for all that. I had hard work to keep up with you.”
“We will take a cab, Aurora,” Mrs. Church went on, without heeding this pleasantry—“a closed one. Come, my daughter.”
“Yes, dear mamma.” The young girl was blushing, yet she was still smiling; she looked round at us all, and, as her eyes met mine, I thought she was beautiful. “Good-bye,” she said to us. “I have had a lovely time.”
“We must not linger,” said her mother; “it is five o’clock. We are to dine, you know, with Madame Galopin.”
“I had quite forgotten,” Aurora declared. “That will be charming.”
“Do you want me to assist you to carry her back, ma am?” asked Mr. Ruck.
Mrs. Church hesitated a moment, with her serene little gaze. “Do you prefer, then, to leave your daughter to finish the evening with these gentlemen?”