“Oh, the piece isn't up to much, I'm afraid, only that Hilda Howe is worth seeing in almost anything.”
“Thanks,” Stephen put in, “but I think, thanks very much, I would rather not.”
“I remember,” Alicia said, “you were with us the night she played in The Offence of Galilee. I don't wonder that you do not wish to disturb that impression.”
Stephen fixed his eyes upon a small pyramid of crystallised cherries immediately in front of him, and appeared to consider, austerely, what form his reply should take. There was an instant's perceptible pause, and then he merely bowed toward Alicia as if vaguely to acknowledge the kindness of her recollection. “I think,” he said again, “that I will not accompany you to-night, if you will be good enough to excuse me.”
“You must excuse us both,” Alicia said definitely, “I should much rather stay at home and talk to Stephen.”
At this they all cried out, but Miss Livingstone would not change her mind. “I haven't seen him for three weeks,” she said, with gentle effrontery, making nothing of his presence, “and he's much more improving than either of you. I also shall choose the better part.”
“How you can call it that, with Hilda in the balance—” Duff protested.
“But then you've invited Lady Dolly. After winning six thousand there will be no holding Lady Dolly. She'll be capable of cat-calls! How I should love,” Alicia went on, “to have Hilda meet her. She would be a mine to Hilda.”
“For pity's sake,” cried her brother, “stop asking Hilda and people who are a mine to Hilda! It's too perceptible, the way she digs in them.”
“You dear old thing, you're quite clever to-night! What difference does it make? They never know—they never dream! I wish I could dig.” Alicia looked pensively at the olive between her finger and thumb.