“Dearest Lady Hartley, how delightful of you to say that!” exclaimed Mr. Tivett, with a coquettish giggle, darting out his little suède glove to give his hostess an affectionate pat on the shoulder; “and now you have heard my character, Miss Marchant, please will you give me a dance?”
“With pleasure,” replied Eve, wondering whether she would look very ridiculous spinning round a public ball-room with this funny little man, who was small enough to be almost hidden in the Champernowne draperies; “which shall it be?”
“Oh, the first waltz after our arrival, and I hope your sisters will each give me one of the extras.”
“I shall be very glad,” said the girl in the tartan shawl. “I don’t suppose I shall have too many partners.”
Mr. Tivett looked at the three faces critically. The eldest girl was much the prettiest, but there was a family likeness. The faces were all of one type, and they were all pretty. It smote Mr. Tivett’s gentle heart to think these nice girls should be so badly dressed, while the Champernownes, who always snubbed him, and whom he hated, were glorious in frocks fresh from Bond Street. Lady Hartley had not exaggerated Mr. Tivett’s devotion to the fair sex. He loved the society of young matrons and girls in their teens, was never happier than when making himself useful to the ladies of the family, and especially rejoiced when consulted upon any question of etiquette or costume. He was reputed to have faultless taste in dress, and an exquisite tact in all social matters; and when two matrons of his acquaintance happened to quarrel, each was apt to impart the story of her wrongs to Mr. Tivett, whose only difficulty was to be the adviser of both, without seeming unfaithful to either. He was not a sportsman, and he pleaded a weak chest as a reason for loving easy-chairs, and cosy corners in boudoirs and morning-rooms, and a seat in a carriage when other men were walking. His Christian name was Augustus; but he was always known as Gus, or Gussie.
Having been introduced to the eldest sister, Mr. Tivett was on easy terms with the three girls in about five minutes, and for the rest of the journey the four were prattling gaily, Lady Hartley chiming in now and then, just for civility’s sake, while the other women maintained their unfriendly silence.
“I knew we should be late,” Claudia Champernowne exclaimed at last, as the omnibus drew up at a lighted door, and she saw the long line of carriages filling the rustic street from end to end.
Miss Green and the Champernownes marched at once to the cloak-room, an upper room over the shop, whither Lady Hartley followed. The Marchant girls fell back, and lingered in the vestibule—said vestibule being neither more nor less than the cabinet-maker’s empty shop, transformed by scarlet and white draperies and evergreens in pots. The Marchants felt that Lady Hartley’s hospitality came to an end at the door of the ball-room, and that they would do ill to attach themselves to her party.
“I think we had better wait here for our chaperon,” said Eve, as Maud looked back at her from the stairs. “I’m sure we can never be too grateful to you for bringing us, Lady Hartley.”
“Please don’t speak of such a trifle. I am to take you home, remember. You must look out for us at three o’clock.”