He smiles grimly.
"Indeed, Miss Brooke, I'm not at all in ball costume," he objects, glancing down at his neat, light suit.
"All the better. I despise their ugly black coats," she replies, warmly. "Do you know," with startling candor, "you are handsomer and nicer-looking than any of the black-coated dandies that dawdle around Ellie and Bert? Come, you will go, just to please me, won't you?" she implores, pathetically.
"No gentleman ever refuses a lady's request," he replies, with rather a sulky air.
Irene scarcely notices his sulky tone. Her heart is set on this daring escapade. Smarting under the sense of the injuries sustained at Bertha's hands, she longs to avenge herself, and show her selfish sister that she will go her way despite her objections. It is a child's spite, a child's willfulness, and all the more obstinate for that reason.
"Oh, thank you," she says, brightly. "We shall have a charming time, sha'n't we?"
"You may. I am not rapturous over the prospect," he replies, laconically.
The willful girl regards him with sincere amazement. "Why, you must be very stupid indeed, not to care for a ball," she observes, with all the candor and freshness of an enfant terrible.
"You are very candid," he replies, feeling a strong desire to seize his hat and leave the house.