“Have you been away, then?”
“I suppose you get a good many engagements, Miss Barnes? What I mean to say is, don’t you find it a great tax? The demands of society seem to increase year by year.”
“It’s some’ing awful,” agreed Louisa. “I shall be out again—let me see—”
“To-morrow night?”
“In about six weeks’ time, to a cantata at Maze Pond Chapel. Scarcely gives you time to breathe, does it?”
Alice perceived that her brother was growing moody in his solitude, and brought up to him the French lady’s maid, who, discovering that he had once spent a day at Boulogne—conveyed to and fro by a free pass—talked to him vivaciously on the superiority of her native country over all others. The young woman at the pianoforte, aroused from a brief nap, was ordered to play a schottische.
At this point the evening suffered a check. It was Cook’s fault. Cook, fearing that the hours were not moving with enough rapidity, suggested games; suggested also one called the Stool of Repentance. Necessary for one person to leave the room, and Mr. Danks being selected for this honour, went out, and the others thereupon selected libellous statements, of which Erb took charge.
“Come in, King Robert of Sicily,” called Erb. Mr. Danks entered, and was ordered by Cook (hugging herself with enjoyment) to take a chair in the centre of the kitchen. “Someone says you’re conceited.”
“That’s you,” said Mr. Danks pointing to Alice.
“Wrong!” remarked Erb. “Someone says all the gels laugh at you.”