“Oh!” He paused. Then, turning suddenly to Adelaide:
“And what is this entertainment, my lady?”
“The Carnival Ball,” said she, almost inaudibly, between her closed lips, as she shut the book of illustrations, pushed it away from her, and leaned back in her chair.
“And you think you would like to go to the Carnival Ball, hey?”
“No, I do not,” said she, as she stroked her lap-dog with a long, white hand on which glittered many rings, and steadily avoided looking at him. She did wish to go to the ball, but she knew that it was as likely as not that if she displayed any such desire he would prevent it. Despite her curt reply she foresaw impending the occurrence which she most of anything disliked—a conversation with Sir Peter. He placed himself in our midst, and requested to look at the pictures. In silence I handed him the book. I never could force myself to smile when he was there, nor overcome a certain restraint of demeanor which rather pleased and flattered him than otherwise. He glanced sharply round in the silence which followed his joining our company, and turning over the illustrations, said:
“I thought I heard some noise when I came in. Don’t let me interrupt the conversation.”
But the conversation was more than interrupted; it was dead—the life frozen out of it by his very appearance.
“When is the carnival, and when does this piece of tomfoolery come off?” he inquired, with winning grace of diction.
“The carnival begins this year on the 26th of February. The ball is on the 27th,” said I, confining myself to facts and figures.
“And how do you get there? By paying?”