“Poor father!” she exclaimed, looking up at me. “He seems terribly worried. Tell me, Mr Ingram, what has happened? I feel sure that some catastrophe has taken place.”
“Oh, nothing,” I reassured her. “Your father is a little anxious regarding some negotiations, that is all.”
“But you will go to the Elysée to-night, won’t you?”
“To-night! What is it to-night?”
“Why, the grand ball,” she answered.
“Which means a new frock for you—eh?” I laughed.
“Of course,” she replied. “You will come, won’t you?”
“I fear I’m ever so much too tired for dancing,” I responded, feeling in no humour for the crowded gaiety of the President’s ball.
“But you must,” she declared—“to please me. I want you to dance with me.”
“Well,” I said with reluctance, “I suppose I dare not be so ungallant as to refuse you.”