When Thomas had summoned his master and mistress to the drawing-room, Mrs. Gaston seated herself near General Reardon, and at once fell into fluent conversation with him. General Gaston, for his part, established himself half-way between this couple and the pair who were seated on the other side of the fire-place. He sat very straight and erect in his chair, occasionally making a rather forced remark to General Reardon, who, in his turn, was conscious of being bored and ill at ease, but entirely unconscious of being the object of any slight whatever. It occurred to him, perhaps, that his host’s manner was peculiar, even unfortunate, but it would have taken a great deal to convey to his honest breast the suspicion that any gentleman alive could mean to slight a visitor in his own house.
Mrs. Gaston, when she chose, could talk agreeably to any one on almost any subject, and she was now discussing crops and market-gardening, and listening, with great vivacity of expression, to a detailed account that General Reardon was giving of the reports his wife—whom he called “Loose,” her name being Lucy—related of the result of a little venture in the way of a market-garden which they had made.
“By-the-way, General,” said the visitor, breaking off suddenly from his conversation with Mrs. Gaston, and turning to address her husband, as if struck with a sudden thought; “are you invited to this supper of General Morton’s?”
Imperceptible bristles began to rise over General Gaston’s surface. He drew himself still more erect, and cleared his throat once or twice before answering.
“Ah—I beg your pardon—ah—yes,” said General Gaston, with an inflection that suggested that he was rather asking a question than answering one. He cleared his throat again and went on, with a certain superciliousness that Margaret noted carefully. “General Morton has been kind enough to remember me and send me a card. There is always a very distinguished company at these suppers of his, and I shouldn’t think of missing this.”
“Loose wants me to go,” responded General Reardon, in indolent, indifferent tones that set Margaret’s blood a-tingling with delight; “but I don’t care anything about it. I s’pose the men’ll all wear swallow-tails, and I haven’t got one. I’ll tell Morton he’ll have to let me off.—What I was going to tell you about the potato crop, is this,” he said, returning to his conversation with Mrs. Gaston, as being the more interesting of the two. “Loose says, if we’d planted Early Rose——”
But Margaret listened no further. She knew Louis was looking at her, and she had drawn down the corners of her mouth, demurely, in her efforts not to laugh; but her eyes brimmed over with such sparkling merriment, that the mouth’s quiescence went for little.
Mr. Gaston presently drew out his watch, and reminded Miss Trevennon of the fact that it was nearly time to set out for the theatre, in fulfilment of their engagement, so she excused herself, and went to put on her wraps.
When the two young people found themselves alone together, in the clear, bracing atmosphere of the city streets—they had chosen to walk—Margaret began the conversation by saying:
“Alan Decourcy called while we were out driving this morning. I hope we shall not happen to be in view of the theatre-party to night; it would be a little awkward, as we both refused to join it.”