MacGregor leaned on the balustrade of one of the many walks which encircled Dinard and stared unseeingly out at the green and foaming sea which sparkled and glittered under a small, pale winter sun.
Andrew Harvey, he had just discovered, was staying at a villa belonging to a certain Madame de Bercy, just outside the town. By diligent questioning and bribing, he had found that Madame de Bercy was not what he had feared—a courtesan—but an elderly lady who was an aunt of Harvey’s on his mother’s side of the family. It complicated matters. MacGregor had hoped that the viscount would be a resident in a hotel where he would be more easily accessible. MacGregor still did not believe that there was much hope for Lucy. Young men did not fall in love to order and Andrew Harvey had proved himself singularly unsusceptible. But Lucy deserved some reward for her long nights at various casinos. And if she failed, it would be better to fail here in Brittany, then perhaps she would find someone else during the Season.
Clutching his tweed cap, MacGregor leaned against the buffeting wind and made his way back to the Hôtel du Nord, which stood on a small cliff above the town.
Lucy was sitting in the hotel lounge staring blankly at a two-day-old copy of The Times.
She was dressed in an ardoise-gray satin frock with a corsage of pale rose velvet, with a broad black moiré sash, edged with narrow black moiré ribbons and a jabot of real lace. Her magnificent black hair was dressed high on her head and a delicate flush tinged her cheeks as she noticed MacGregor. It might be possible after all, he thought. Her beauty was of the constantly changing variety. She never looked the same.
He gave the logs in the fire an energetic kick and threw himself down into the armchair opposite her.
“Well, he’s here all right … staying with an aunt, which will make things a wee bit difficult. But never mind. We’ll manage. There is some social life of a kind. There is a very, very rich American widow, a Mrs. Hackett of New York, who entertains a lot. I shall call this afternoon and present our cards.”
“We don’t even know the woman,” said Lucy.
“We are now in high society and one doesn’t need to know people, especially when one is abroad. Aristocrats such as ourselves are allowed to impose on society matrons with no fear of a rebuff. Now, have you got our story right?”
“We have estates in the north of Scotland,” recited Lucy, like an obedient schoolgirl. “Our ancestors were Jacobites but changed to support King George just in time to save the family fortunes. This bit of family history is to be delivered with a deprecating laugh. All the best families have villains somewhere in the closet and are inordinately proud of them. We have a small castle, medieval, but very charming. I was educated by a governess. What on earth happens should I marry and my husband expects to see this famous castle?”
“We shall have bought it by then,” said MacGregor indifferently.
“But in the meantime, what if this future husband knows Scotland very well?”
“Not even the Scots know Scotland that well,” said MacGregor laconically. “There’s always some obscure glen somewhere.”
“And why has the famous and aristocratic family of Balfour-MacGregor never visited London before?”
“Because they didn’t like the place. Your great-great grandmother had her bottom pinched by George the Third.”
“Terrible man.”
“He was that by all accounts,” said MacGregor, cheerfully misunderstanding her.
“The first thing we do when we get to London is to seek out some impoverished lady of quality to get you presented at court.”
“That’s going too far,” said Lucy. Visions of King Edward leaping down from the throne and shouting “impostor” made her quail.
“Dinnae fash yerself,” said MacGregor. “Society abounds with all sorts of upstarts. Money opens every door these days. We must be very sure of our lady of quality, however. I ‘member the story of a rich American woman who got Lady Pettigrew-Lythe to promise to get her to Buckingham Palace. The poor American woman paid out a fortune to Lady Pettigrew-Lythe to secure the precious invitation. But Lady Pettigrew-Lythe’s daughter, one of those scrawny debs, all teeth and lank hair, told everyone that King Edward had tried to get her into bed. All lies. She only said it to make herself look like some sort of a femme fatale. Anyway, a lot of obliging friends cheerfully told King Edward, so just before the drawing room at Buckingham Palace was to take place, he had Lady Pettigrew-Lythe struck from the lists and the poor American lady along with her.”
Lucy looked up at MacGregor from under her long eyelashes. “And what do you wish for yourself out of all this, my dear adopted Papa?”
“Me? A bit of land in Scotland to call my own,” he said. “A bit of grouse moor, a bit of house, a bit of trout stream, and a bit of security for my old age.”
“I would like to meet an American lady,” mused Lucy.
“Ah, I can see the fires of democracy burning in your eyes,” laughed MacGregor. “The American ladies are just as formidable as the English ones. More so. They learn the snobberies of our social life fast. But then, they have so many peculiar ones of their own. By George! If I’m not mistaken here comes one now.”
Lucy looked through the lounge door to where an imperious-looking lady seemed to be borne into the entrance hall on a wave of small dogs. “How can you tell? She could be English.”
“Her clothes are French but they’re bandbox fresh down to the last boot button. English women always miss some little detail. A thread pulled in the shawl, a little broken feather in the hat … and the dogs have all just had a bath.”
The lady in question swept into the room followed by her retinue of dogs, the hotel manager, and a depressed-looking lady’s maid.
“I think it silly to stand on ceremony,” she began, holding out a slim hand in a tan glove. “I am Mrs. Hackett and you, I gather, are Mr. Balfour-MacGregor.”
“Enchanted,” said MacGregor, bowing over her hand.
Lucy was disappointed. The lady seemed cold and imperious and her voice was clipped and harsh, with only a slight flattening of the a’s to betray her transatlantic origin. She advanced on Lucy. “I guess you must be Miss Balfour-MacGregor.”
“Your guess is right,” said Lucy politely.
Mrs. Hackett sat down suddenly in a great flurry of plum-colored velvet. She wore an old-fashioned bustle which meant she was obliged to sit on the very edge of the chair. She must be around forty years old, Lucy judged. Her sallow complexion was dusted with rose powder and dark red lipstick on her thin lips made her mouth look like an open wound. Her army of small dogs lay around the hem of her skirts, panting and wheezing.
“You are Scotch, I believe,” said Mrs. Hackett, staring at Lucy with a pair of watery blue eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Which part?”
“Cromarty,” said MacGregor.
“Really! I know Scotland well. Which part of Cromarty?”
“It’s a little place called Auchterherder,” said MacGregor smoothly. “Miles from anywhere.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Hackett’s eyes were pricing Lucy’s Parisian gown to the last sou. “You’ll know the Earl of Dunfern of course?”
“Of course,” said MacGregor.
“Still the same, I trust?”
MacGregor ransacked through his memories of servants’ gossip. “Unfortunately not, Mrs. Hackett. I fear a divorce is pending. The earl has been out to play.”
Mrs. Hackett gave a delighted gasp. “But the earl and countess. Such a devoted couple! What happened? Who was it?”
“One of the servants.”
“Oh, my, my! A housemaid?”
MacGregor threw Lucy a quick look and dropped his voice. “One of the footmen.”
Mrs. Hackett’s pale eyes sparkled with pleasure. “But really. How? Where?”
MacGregor gave a warning look in Lucy’s direction. “My daughter, you know,” he whispered, leaning forward and pressing Mrs. Hackett’s gloved hand. “Just out this year. Innocent …”
“Of course, of course,” said Mrs. Hackett, positively trembling with delight as she returned the pressure of MacGregor’s hand. “But how diveen. You and I must get together for a long talk. In fact, I called to see if you and your daughter would care to come to tea this afternoon. I have invited several of the other English residents. I consider myself quite English, you know. But, of course, my ancestors were British. Colonel Billy Hackett fought under Washington.”
“That must have been very uncomfortable for him,” said MacGregor.
Mrs. Hackett bridled and withdrew her hand. Then her mind worked furiously. She had not had such a delicious piece of gossip in months. Mr. Balfour-MacGregor must be very powerful socially to tease her. She relaxed and stretched her thin mouth in a smile. “Dreadful man,” she simpered finally. “You even shock my poor doggies. Bye, bye. I shall expect you at four o’clock. My carriage shall call for you. No, no. No trouble at all. Au revoir, Miss Balfour-MacGregor. You will certainly set all our young men’s hearts aflutter.”
She swept out with her bustle bouncing and her dogs lolloping along at her feet. The lady’s maid scurried after her. The door of the lounge closed and MacGregor took a deep breath.
“The first battle’s over. I thought for a minute I had gone too far.”
“What was all that about the footman?” asked Lucy curiously.
MacGregor had the grace to blush. “Don’t worry your pretty head with things like that. Well have lunch and then you can go and put on that pretty tea gown. The lacy thing. What is for lunch?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “I suppose it’s the usual … various animals marinated for a year in cider. I seem to have been eating cider since I got here.”
“Well try it anyway,” said MacGregor, getting to his feet. “Are you nervous about this afternoon?”
“No,” lied Lucy, “not in the slightest.”
But her hands shook later that day as she was assisted into the tea gown by one of the hotel maids. Her gown was of palest pink crepe météore with an overdress of white Chantilly lace and with an old-world sash of black velvet. She looked as if she had stepped down from a painting by Gainsborough. She fastened the first of her family heirlooms around her neck—a long rope of real pearls—picked up an ostrich feather fan, and then waited while the maid wrapped her in a thick mantle of green velvet, exactly the shade of her eyes.
The Hackett residence turned out to be only a short distance away from the hotel and they did not really need Mrs. Hackett’s carriage despite the cold, blustery day. Mrs. Hackett’s villa was rather like a large Swiss chalet which had woken up one morning to find itself turned into stone. On the inside it was like a lace-bedecked hospital. Everything was white; carpets, upholstery, and curtains. Mrs. Hackett herself was a miracle of white lace, white gloves, and white powder. She had even left her mouth unpainted. She looked like a very energetic ghost, newly returned from the grave and hell-bent on gossip.
“You have arrived early. Good, good. We shall be a small party today. Just Buffy, Didi, Elinor, Boodles, and … oh there’s the bell. I do prefer to answer the door myself. Too, too democratic, don’t you think?”
Lucy and MacGregor walked into the glare of the white drawing room. “Christ!” exclaimed the irrepressible MacGregor. “It even smells of anesthetic!”
Lucy wondered sadly if the elusive Viscount Harvey had been included in the invitation. It was hard to tell in a world where everyone seemed to have nicknames like Twiddles or Bo.
The other guests began to arrive. All were dressed in white to pander to their hostess’s latest whim. “I’m beginning to feel haunted,” whispered Lucy.
Didi turned out to be the type of American that Lucy had hoped to meet. She was a tiny girl with flame-colored hair, a pointed little face, and an engaging personality. Buffy was a heavyset young man with tremendous mustaches and a high, braying laugh. Elinor was a young deb with a thin red nose, thin red eyes, and a waspish tongue. Boodles was handsome in a bluff English way with a bluff inarticulate manner. His contribution to the conversation was to emit a huge dirty laugh every time anyone said the most innocent thing, leaving the speaker feeling that he had actually said something really filthy. He was in fact very shy, quite religious, and had a genuine horror of salacious jokes. Mrs. Hackett trundled about the room lighting sticks of incense. It was all that was needed to add to the ghostly effect.
“Isn’t Mrs. Hackett terrible,” whispered Didi to Lucy. “Now I’ve gone and shocked you. You wonder why I come. Well, you’ll find there really is nowhere else to go. Are you coming out this year?”
Lucy nodded.
“Oh, goody. Then we can suffer together. I’m coming out as well. The whole thing terrifies me. I could have come out just as well back home in Philadelphia, but my mama’s dead-set on me marrying a lord. Are you frightened about your Season?”
“Very much,” said Lucy, warming to the vivacious American. “I gather that one is not supposed to say so. One is supposed to be terribly, terribly languid and say, ‘What a bore it all is,’ except of course it’s not. I think I get a kind of stage fright when I think of it.”
“Me too,” said Didi. “Oh, I do feel we are going to be friends. May I call you Lucy? I’m Didi, as you know. My real name’s Dorothy but no one ever calls me that unless they’re mad at me.”
“I can’t imagine anyone getting ‘mad at you,’” said Lucy.
“Well, my mother does,” laughed Didi. “‘Really, Dorothy,’ she says. ‘I declare you are so rowdy and common, I shudder to think of what London will make of you!’ “
Mrs. Hackett bustled from the room to answer the summons of the doorbell. “I wonder who that can be?” said Didi breathlessly. Her color had become high and her hand was trembling slightly. Lucy smiled down at the smaller girl. Didi was obviously in love. The door of the drawing room opened and Mrs. Hackett strode in.
“I think you know everyone here, Andrew. Unless you haven’t met our latest newcomers. Mr. Balfour-MacGregor and his daughter.”
Andrew Harvey was saying something about no, he hadn’t had that pleasure. Lucy stood rooted to the spot.
Andrew Harvey was dressed in an impeccably cut dark gray suit. He wore a scarlet waistcoat embroidered lavishly with gold birds. The familiar blue, mocking eyes stared across the room directly into Lucy’s own, and she blushed. She felt the blush rising and could not control it or her sudden rapid breathing. She was aware of Didi staring at her and of the sudden wave of antagonism emanating from the girl. Lucy had found a new friend—and lost her—all in the space of a few minutes. Viscount Harvey had swung away to talk to MacGregor, his high-nosed arrogant face breaking up into laughter at something the ex-butler said.
MacGregor was leading him across the room. Lucy could feel her heart thudding against her new Parisian stays.
“My daughter, Lucy,” said MacGregor proudly, unaware of Lucy’s distress and only noticing how the added color in the girl’s face made her look twice as beautiful.
“I feel we have met before,” said Andrew Harvey, taking Lucy’s small hand in his and smiling down into her eyes.
“No. We have not met before,” said Lucy.
“You are Scottish, your father tells me. Lovely country. I was there not so long ago. At Marysburgh. Perhaps you know it?”
“No,” said Lucy vehemently and then blushing again.
“Do you mean to hold Lucy’s hand all day?” demanded Didi in a high, thin voice.
Andrew Harvey laughed and released Lucy’s hand. “I hear tea being announced. You must allow me to escort you, Miss Balfour-MacGregor.”
“You always escort me,” said Didi in a high, shrill voice. There was an embarrassed little silence and then Andrew Harvey patted Didi lazily on the cheek. “And so I shall again, Miss Didi, as soon as I am through welcoming the newcomers.”
Lucy walked beside him as if in a dream. Tea was served on a glassed-in terrace overlooking the tumbling sea below. Lucy wished Andrew would turn his attention elsewhere until she had time to compose herself, but every time she looked shyly up from the tea table, the mocking, glinting blue eyes were looking down into her own.
She stared resolutely out at the sea.
“What are you searching the waves for, Miss Balfour-MacGregor?” teased the light, pleasant voice she remembered so well. “Charon, perhaps? I declare I thought I had stepped into the fields of Hades when I arrived. All those white figures wandering in a smoky haze of incense! I am glad to see you were bold enough to wear some color. That’s a very pretty gown. Parisian, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Lucy, changing her gaze from the sea to her teacup.
“This will never do. You are supposed to rap my knuckles with your fan and say that gentlemen shouldn’t know of such things. What do you think of the social delights of Dinard?”
“Very interesting.”
“A model of tact! We do have other amusements, you know. Now, there is an old gentleman whom Mrs. Hackett says is not quite-quite, a Mr. Jones who lives at the other end of town in a vast Gothic mansion. He is very vulgar and very cheerful—straight out of Dickens. Vast meals and jolly entertainments. He is planning a ball to which the whole town is to be invited. Of course, our good hostess will not go because it is rumored that Mr. Jones made his fortune by carrying on where Mr. Crapper left off. And where would we be without Mr. Crapper?”
Lucy blushed. Thomas Crapper was the name that looked up at you when you looked down the toilet bowl—if ladies were ever known to look.
“So, despite our good hostess’s social damnings about upstarts and people in trade, we shall nonetheless all go and have a splendid time. I like Mr. Jones. He’s from Yorkshire, which isn’t Scottish, but it is north. You will go of course. Please say you’ll go. In fact … please say something!”
“How can I,” remarked Lucy with some asperity, “when you won’t even let me get a word in edgewise? I don’t know whether I shall go or not. It’s up to Mr. Balfour-MacGregor.”
“How Victorian! Do you usually call your father Mr. Balfour-MacGregor?”
“Frequently,” said Lucy inanely.
“Quite correct. Shows a proper sign of respect. We should respect our parents’ gray hairs, no matter what scandalous nothings they may be whispering in our hostess’s ear.”
Lucy looked quickly across at Mrs. Hackett. She was leaning forward avidly to listen to what MacGregor was saying and her face was quite mottled with excitement
“The weather,” said Lucy desperately, “is uncommonly blustery …”
“… for the time of year,” blithely finished her infuriating companion. “It may even snow. Now we have disposed of the weather, I shall continue to rattle on regardless, trying to get this conversation or monologue or whatever, on a more exciting footing.”
Lucy gave up. Her green eyes looked straight into the mocking blue ones. “You, my lord,” she accused, “are flirting with me.”
“I’m trying. Trying desperately and not getting one inch along the way,” laughed Andrew Harvey. God! Her eyes were glorious. And he had at least got her to look at him and never, ever in his life had the viscount had to try so hard to get any young lady to do that.
“I also realize,” he said, dropping his voice, “that I am embarrassing you. The ball is tomorrow night. Please say you’ll come.”
“Yes,” said Lucy baldly, racking her brains for something light and frivolous to say.
“Good. Now I can abandon you to your fate. Boodles has been looking daggers at me. Oh, here he comes, bearing down on us and waving hot buttered crumpet all over the place. I must talk to Didi.”
He rose and made her an elegant little bow and left her feeling as if she had just survived a storm.
Boodles plumped heavily down into his place. "You don’t mind if I talk to you, Miss Balfour-MacGregor? Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you. Jolly, pretty girl, what. I mean, don’t you know, shut away in this ghastly little town one doesn’t have a chance … I mean, don’t you know?” he ended miserably, looking at her with doglike eyes.
Emboldened by his shyness, Lucy smiled at him. “Dinard seems a very pleasant place. Why do you stay here if you don’t like it?”
“M’mother makes me,” he said. “’Course I don’t mind it now. I say. I’m not making you feel uncomfortable or anything?”
“No,” said Lucy. “I feel very comfortable. The view is lovely.”
“Lovely, eh, what!” Boodles let out a great bray of filthy laughter. Lucy shied and peered nervously out of the window, half expecting to see some couple engaged in some obscene act in the bushes. But when she turned back to Boodles, he was staring shyly at the table, his vulgar mirth having disappeared as if it had never existed. Didi was now seated next to Andrew, her little face radiant. Lucy experienced a violent twinge of jealousy followed by a feeling of irritation. She and Didi could have been such friends!
“Do move over and let me have a word with our newcomer.” The speaker was the debutante called Elinor. She did not so much look at Lucy as point like a game dog.
When Boodles had ambled reluctantly away, Elinor sat down and put her face very close to Lucy’s. “I have been hearing a lot about you,” she began in a tone which suggested that what she had heard was not altogether pleasant. “Scotch, I believe. I know all the best families. You know the Dunferns, of course.”
“Of course,” said Lucy. “And I would rather not.” She remembered the footman and felt on safe ground.
“Oh, really, why?”
“I would rather not say.”
“Oh! Where are you going to be when you are in town?”
“I don’t know. We have yet to find a place.”
“How odd. Our family has had a house in town for centuries.”
“Our family,” said Lucy primly, “took a dislike to town in George the Third’s reign.”
“Why?”
“He pinched my great-great grandmother’s bottom, King George did.”
Elinor was impressed despite herself but she was still very jealous.
“Where were you educated?
“At home,” said Lucy stiffly.
“Where’s home?”
For the life of her Lucy could not remember the fictitious place and for a split second wondered what on earth to say. She was saved. Elinor suddenly leapt about three feet in the air and screamed, “Someone pinched my bottom!”
Elinor looked wildly around. So did everyone else. But no one appeared to be near the girl and only Lucy had seen the spritely MacGregor nipping quickly away to the other side of the room.
“It must have been the ghost of George the Third,” said Lucy cheerfully.
“But I didn’t imagine it,” wailed Elinor. “My sit-upon still hurts.” Boodles delivered himself of his usual vulgar laugh and Elinor glared at him.
“Honestly, Boodles. You should send that laugh of yours out to be laundered,” snapped Elinor, turning once again to Lucy. “What were we talking about, Miss Balfour-MacGregor?”
“We weren’t really talking,” said Lucy with sudden asperity. “You were asking a frightful lot of questions.”
Lucy had not meant to be so sharp but the sight of Andrew Harvey laughing and chatting with Didi made her feel lost and empty.
With relief, she saw the other man, Buffy, approaching. “Are you going to Mr. Jones’s ball?” he asked.
“If I am invited,” said Lucy.
“Oh, we all are.”
“Pay no attention,” said Mrs. Hackett. “The man is not quite-quite, definitely not pukka-sahib. Not one of us. In trade. Smells of the shop.”
“I say, that’s going a bit far,” cut in Andrew Harvey cheerfully. “Can’t say I’ve ever noticed Jonesy smelling of his products.”
“The clean ones don’t smell,” said MacGregor conversationally. “It’s only when they’ve been used …”
Elinor got to her feet. She was quite puce with anger. “Such subjects are not discussed in front of ladies. I am surprised at your allowing it. I swear that man"—here she pointed to MacGregor—"has corrupted you.”
She waited for a second, sure of Mrs. Hackett’s apology. After all, she, Elinor, was one of the Bellings of Sussex. But Mrs. Hackett had tasted more heady social gossip than anything Elinor had to offer, so she simply said nothing and stared across the Queen Ann silver teapot with an air of brooding malice.
After Elinor had left, the other guests began to consider taking their leave as well.
Andrew Harvey noticed out of the corner of his eye that Lucy and MacGregor were leaving. “Excuse me, Didi. I feel I should escort the newcomers back to their hotel.”
Didi racked her brains for something to say that would dissuade him but he was already crossing the room to Lucy’s side.
“I will see you both safely home, Mr. Balfour-MacGregor.”
“It’s quite all right,” said the infuriating MacGregor. "Mrs. Hackett has kindly offered her carriage.”
“You have not seen much of Dinard, have you?” asked the persistent viscount of Lucy. “Of course you haven’t. I am sure you can trust me with her as far as the hotel, sir.”
“Very well,” said MacGregor. “Off you go if you insist on walking.”
Lucy’s heart began to hammer. They would be alone, she and Andrew Harvey, as alone as they had been on the Scottish hillside. They would walk above the tumbling sea and under the tinny rattling of the winter palms …
“What a ripping idea. I declare I will walk as well.” It was Didi. Andrew swore under his breath.
“Good idea,” he said. “Boodles will escort Didi and I will show Miss Balfour-MacGregor the sights of our adopted town.”
Boodles and Didi were quite patently furious. Boodles would have liked to escort the attractive newcomer himself, and Didi, of course, wanted the viscount to herself.
Outside, Andrew Harvey held out his arm to Lucy. She put her hand timidly on his arm, feeling as if an electric charge had just been shot through her body.
Didi and Boodles followed behind them along the walk above the noisy sea. Occasionally they would shout remarks to the infuriating couple in front but neither Andrew nor Lucy seemed to be aware of their existence.
One part of Andrew Harvey’s brain seemed to be looking on at himself in cynical amusement. He could not have fallen in love so quickly. One simply did not. The girl was remarkably beautiful, but, then, he had met many beauties. He would keep his head and enjoy a flirtation, and if she seemed to be getting at all serious about him, he would fade away in his usual practiced manner.
All too soon the walk broadened out allowing the other couple to come abreast. Lucy watched Didi’s expressive little face as the girl looked at Andrew Harvey. What a mixture it was of love and passion and jealousy and anger. Lucy shivered. Perhaps she would become like that herself. Perhaps she would be flirted with for a little length of time until the viscount was no longer amused. She must be very careful. They had reached the Hôtel du Nord. She abruptly withdrew her hand and bid the startled party a curt good-day.
MacGregor was already there and waiting. “You’re going too fast, Lucy. Hold back a bit. If you’re so obviously in love with a man like Harvey, he’ll soon lose interest.”
“I know,” said Lucy crossly. Love was such a delicate, fragile thing, like the spun glass birds in the case in the corner of their drawing room. MacGregor’s interest in her romance seemed vulgar. She wished he would go away.
“Oh, dear,” sighed MacGregor. “It’s obviously all too delicate and precious at the moment for a bit of everyday horse sense. Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, let’s talk of something else. It’s high time we got ourselves some servants. The lack of them is making us conspicuous. I’ve employed a temporary valet and lady’s maid through the hotel manager. If you go on any more walks with young gentlemen, my dear, be sure to take your maid.”
“But will I employ my own lady’s maid in London?” asked Lucy anxiously.
“Well, if you’re sure you’re up to it. Get a woman with good references.”
Lucy nodded but had privately made up her mind to employ some young girl who would enjoy the opportunity of having a lenient mistress.
“Are we going to Mr. Jones’s ball?” she asked, to change the subject.
“I suppose so. Don’t die with excitement before then.”
“I am perfectly calm,” snapped Lucy. But secretly she felt that the next day would never come.