No, Franceline was not engaged.
“Then may I claim the privilege of the first-comer, and ask you for it?”
“Yes, thank you. I shall be very happy.”
And she began immediately to be very miserable, remembering that she did not know how to waltz, never having had a dancing lesson in her life. She shut up her book, and set out toward the vicarage. She never felt quite at home with the Langrove girls; but they were the essence of good nature, and perhaps they could help her out of this difficulty. She was ashamed to say at once what had brought her, and went on listening to them chattering about their dresses, which were being manufactured out of every shade of tarlatan in the rainbow. Suddenly Godiva exclaimed: “I wonder if you’ll have any partners, Franceline? Do you think you will? You know you don’t know anybody? You’ve never even spoken to Mr. Charlton.” And Franceline, crushed under a sense of this and another inferiority, blushed, and said “No.”
“Perhaps Mr. de Winton will ask you? Oh, I should think he’s sure to. Hasn’t he asked you already?” And Franceline, painfully conscious of ten eyes staring at her, blushed deep crimson this time, and answered “Yes”; and then, suddenly recollecting that she had something important to do, she said good-by and hurried away. She had not closed the gate behind her when the five Misses Langrove who were “out” had rushed up to the nursery and informed the five who were not “out” that Franceline de la Bourbonais was engaged to that handsome, rich young Mr. de Winton, who had £60,000 a year and the grandest place in Wales. Only fancy!
“How stupid I was to get red like that, instead of telling the truth and asking Isabella to teach me how to do it!” was Franceline’s vexed exclamation to herself, as she entered the garden, and, swinging her sunshade, looked up at her doves perched on a branch just behind the chimney that was curling its blue rings up against the deeper purple of the copper-beech.
“What is my child meditating on so solemnly?” said M. de la Bourbonais, meeting her at the door; and taking her face between his hands, he looked into the dark, deep eyes that had never had a secret from him. Had they now? He had watched her walking up the garden, and noticed that fold in the smooth, white brow; he was always watching her of late, though Franceline did not perceive it.
“I am worried, petit père. I wish I were not going to this ball!” And she leaned her cheek against his with a sigh.
Raymond started as if he had been stabbed.
“My child! my cherished one! what is it? What has happened?”