“To my daughter? Certainly—she is but a child. Ella, dearest, Mr. D’Arcy would make your acquaintance.”
The young girl bent to the salutation of the stranger, and a blush of the softest pink overspread features, throat and arms, reaching even to the ends of the taper fingers, as she timidly replied in monosyllables to the few words of common-place civility he addressed to her.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A SERIOUS CHAPTER
One morning about a fortnight after Evelyn’s last evening reception, Mr. D’Arcy was announced.
“I take the liberty,” said he, “of intruding on a day that I know you are not at home to all the world, in the hope of escaping the usual toilette talk at ladies’ receptions.”
“We are happy to see you, on your own terms, Mr. D’Arcy—the more so, as the part of the hostess is rather an ungrateful one. She is forced to converse chiffons, and other frivolities, when she would perhaps prefer to philosophize, if ladies ever dare appear so blue.”
“It is for this,” replied he, “that I dislike lady’s ‘days.’ One can never approach the mistress of the house herself, except to make some common-place observation about the weather, the opera, the ‘première répresentation’ at the Varietés—qui sait?” with a French shrug of the shoulders.
“Oh, Mr. D’Arcy, in pity do not imitate the French at my house,” exclaimed Evelyn. “If you only knew how their manners—half-monkey, half-hairdresser—annoy me.”