“It is good wearing stuff,” said Miss Peggy. “Yet I had thought that mode gone out.”
“So it had, my dear,” said Nancy sharply; “and I believe it went out five seasons ago. That is longer than I can recollect. But it has come back again. Fashions do revive, sometimes.”
This was a very ill-natured thing to say, and made poor Miss Peggy wince and colour, and she did not retaliate, because, I suppose, she could think of nothing to say.
Then old Mr. Walsingham, who had constituted himself the director of the ceremonies, appeared. He was dressed in the most beautiful crimson silk coat, lined with white, and purple waistcoat, and he came slowly up the hall, with a gentleman whose bearing was as great as his own, but whose years were less.
“It is young Lord Chudleigh,” whispered Peggy Baker, fanning herself anxiously. “He has come from Durdans with his party.”
Lord Chudleigh!
Heavens! To meet in such a manner, in such a place, my own husband!
“What is the matter, Kitty dear?” asked Nancy. “You turned quite pale. Bite your lips, my dear, to get the colour back.”
“It is nothing. I am faint with the heat and the lights, I suppose. Do not take notice of me.”
Peggy Baker assumed an air of languor and sensibility, which, though extremely fine, was perhaps over-acted.