The costume had rather scandalised old Mr. Gunton-Cresswell, a venerable Tory who rarely spoke except to grumble. Even Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell, who had lately been elected to the newly-formed Les Serfs d’Avenir, was inclined to deprecate it.
But I was sure Eva had chosen the better part. The dress suited her to perfection. Her legs are the legs of a boy.
As I looked at her with concentrated hatred, I realised I had never seen a human soul so radiant, so brimming with espièglerie, so altogether to be desired.
“Why, Julian, is it you. This is good of you!”
It was evident that the past was to be waived. I took my cue.
“Thanks, Eva,” I said; “it suits you admirably.”
Events at this point move quickly.
Another card of invitation is produced. Would I care to use it, and take Eva to the ball?
“But I’m not in fancy dress.”
Overruled. Fancy dress not an essential. Crowds of men there in ordinary evening clothes.