“Not like that. James only thinks he loves me. He’s too young. I—Tell me about your dress, dear!”
“For the ball?” Jennifer sat up, nothing loth. “ ’Tis of white silk—”
“Sir Deryk Brenderby!”
Jennifer started.
“Oh, dear!” she said regretfully.
A tall, loose-limbed man came in.
“Fair Mistress Cleone! I am happy, indeed, to have found you in! I kiss your hands, dear lady!”
Cleone drew them away, smiling.
“Mistress Jennifer Winton, Sir Deryk.”
Brenderby seemed to become suddenly aware of Jenny’s presence. He bowed. Jennifer curtseyed demurely, and took refuge behind her friend.
Sir Deryk lowered himself into a chair.
“Mistress Cleone, can you guess why I have come?”
“To see me!” said Cleone archly.
“That is the obvious, fair tormentor! Another reason had I.”
“The first should be enough, sir,” answered Cleone, with downcast eyes.
“And is, Most Beautiful. But the other reason concerns you also.”
“La! You intrigue me, sir! Pray, what is it?”
“To beg, on my knees, that you will dance with me on Wednesday!”
“Oh, I don’t know!” Cleone shook her head. “I doubt all the dances are gone.”
“Ah, no, dearest lady! Not all!”
“Indeed, I think so! I cannot promise anything.”
“But you give me hope?”
“I will not take it from you,” said Cleone. “Perhaps Jennifer will give you a dance.”
Sir Deryk did not look much elated. But he bowed to Jennifer.
“May that happiness be mine, madam?”
“Th—thank you,” stammered Jennifer. “If you please!”
Sir Deryk bowed again and straightway forgot her existence.
“You wear my primroses, fairest!” he said to Cleone. “I scarce dared to hope so modest a posy would be so honoured.”
Cleone glanced down at the pale yellow blooms.
“Oh, are they yours? I had forgot,” she said cruelly.
“Ah, Cleone!”
Cleone raised her brows.
“My name, sir?”
“Mistress Cleone,” corrected Brenderby, bowing.
Lady Malmerstoke chose that moment at which to billow into the room. She leaned on the arm of one Mr. Jettan.
“Philip, you are a sad fellow! You do not mean one word of what you say! Oh, lud! I have chanced on a reception. Give ye good den, Jenny, my dear. Sir Deryk? Thus early in the morning? I think you know Mr. Jettan?”
The two men bowed.
“I have the pleasure, Lady Malmerstoke,” said Brenderby. “I did not see you last night, Jettan? You were not at Gregory’s card-party?”
“Last night?—last night? No, I was at White’s with my father. Mademoiselle, your very obedient! Et la petite!”
“Bonjour, monsieur!” ventured Jennifer shyly.
Philip swept her a leg.
“Mademoiselle a fait des grands progrès,” he said.
She wrinkled her brow.
“Great—progress?” she hazarded.
“Of course! And how is mademoiselle?”
“Very well, I thank you, sir.”
Lady Malmerstoke sank into a large armchair.
“Well, I trust I don’t intrude?” she remarked. “Clo, where is my embroidery?” She turned to her guests. “I never set a stitch, of course. It would fatigue me too much. But it looks industrious to have it by me, doesn’t it?”
Cleone and Brenderby had walked to the table in search of the missing embroidery. Cleone looked over her shoulder.
“You must not believe what she says,” she told them. “Aunt Sarah embroiders beautifully. She is not nearly as lazy as she would have you think.”
“Not lazy, my love—indolent. A much nicer word. Thank you, my dear.” She received her stitchery and laid it down. “I will tell you all a secret. Oh, Philip knows! Philip, you need not listen.”
Philip was perched on a chair-arm.
“A million thanks, Aunt!”
“That is very unkind of you!” she reproached him. “You tell my secret before ever I have time to say a word!”
“Eh bien! You should not have suggested that I did not want to listen to your voice.”
“When I am, indeed, your aunt, I shall talk to you very seriously about flattering old women,” she said severely.
Cleone clapped her hands.
“Oh, Aunt Sally! You are going to wed Mr. Jettan?”
“One of them,” nodded her aunt. “I gather that this one”—she smiled up at Philip—“is going to wed Someone Else. And I do not think I would have him in any case.”
“And now who is unkind?” cried Philip. “I’ve a mind to run away with you as you enter the church!”
Cold fear was stealing through Cleone. Mechanically she congratulated her aunt. Through a haze she heard Brenderby’s voice and Jennifer’s. So Philip was going to marry Someone Else? No doubt it was Ann Nutley, the designing minx!
When Philip came presently to her side she was gayer than ever, sparkling with merriment, and seemingly without a care in the world. She drew Sir Deryk into the conversation, flirting outrageously. She parried all Philip’s sallies and laughed at Sir Deryk’s witticisms. Then Philip went to talk to Jennifer. A pair of hungry, angry, jealous, and would-be careless blue eyes followed him and grew almost hard.
When the guests had gone Cleone felt as though her head were full of fire. Her cheeks burned, her eyes were glittering. Lady Malmerstoke looked at her.
“You are hot, my love. Open the window.”
Cleone obeyed, cooling her cheeks against the glass panes.
“How very shy that child is!” remarked my lady.
“Jenny? Yes. Very, is she not?”
“I thought Sir Deryk might have noticed her a little more than he did.”
“He had no chance, had he? She was quite monopolised.”
Her ladyship cast a shrewd glance towards the back of Cleone’s head. She smiled unseen.
“Well, my love, to turn to other matters, which is it to be—Philip or Sir Deryk?”
Cleone started.
“What do you mean, Aunt? Which is it to be?”
“Which are you going to smile upon? You have given both a deal of encouragement. I don’t count young James, of course. He’s a babe.”
“Please, please—”
“I don’t like Sir Deryk. No, I don’t like him at all. He has no true politeness, or he would have talked a little more to me, or to Jenny. Which do you intend to wed, my dear?”
“Neither?”
“My dear Cleone!” Her ladyship was shocked. “Then why do you encourage them to make love to you? Now be advised by me! Have Sir Deryk!”
Cleone gave a trembling laugh.
“I thought you did not like him?”
“No more I do. But that’s not to say he’d make a bad husband. On the contrary. He’d let you
