“That is just it! You have been parading yourself with Pearl for the last hour. Have you said anything to lead her to hope—”
Léon began to understand, and the look of indignant surprise that answered his mother completely reassured her.
“Thank Heaven!” she muttered under her breath. “I knew you were incapable of it, my son, but—”
Léon did not wait to hear more; he abruptly turned away, fearful lest Pearl should have overheard his mother’s offensive insinuations; but a glance at her face showed him she had heard nothing.
“Are you engaged for the cotillon, mademoiselle?” he said.
“No.”
“Then may I claim your hand for it?”
“Good gracious, my son! you are not so selfish as to want to keep me here till four in the morning? I am worn out already—I am indeed,” protested the terrified mother, whom her son and everybody else knew to be simply indefatigable when the duty to society was in question.
“Pray don’t let us detain you here, madame,” said Polly with a certain asperity; “we shall be glad to go the moment you feel inclined.” She saw that a change had come over their chaperon, and she was annoyed at the way she snapped at Léon about the cotillon.
“Is it indeed true? You would not mind coming away now? I am so exhausted by the heat! I never knew the palace so overheated. But Marguerite wishes to remain for the cotillon?”