“Where was she sitting? how was she dressed?”
I had only seen her standing; I never noticed—I hardly think I could have seen—even the colour of her dress.
“Not know how she was dressed? My dear Frank, how strange!”
“All young ladies dress alike now, aunt; there’s really not much distinction; they seemed all black and white to me.”
“Certainly the balls don’t look half so gay as they used to do: a little colour gives cheerfulness, I think.” (The good old lady herself had worn crimson satin and a suite of chrysolites—if her theory were correct, she was enough to have spread a glow over the whole company.) “But let me see;—tall, with pearls, you say; dark hair and eyes?”
“Yes.”
“You must mean Lucy Fielding.”
“Nonsense, my dear ma’am—I beg a thousand pardons; but I was introduced to Miss Fielding, and danced with her—she squints.”
“My dear Frank, don’t say such a thing!—she will have half the Strathinnis property when she comes of age. But let me see again. Had she a white rose in her hair?”