"Er. . .your chair is outside. . .m'dear," he said, with his
most exasperating drawl, "I suppose you will want to go to that demmed
ball. . . . Excuse me--er--Monsieur Chauvelin--I had not observed
you. . . ."
He extended two slender, white fingers toward Chauvelin, who
had risen when Sir Percy entered the box.
"Are you coming, m'dear?"
"Hush! Sh! Sh!" came in angry remonstrance from different
parts of the house.
"Demmed impudence," commented Sir Percy with a good-natured
smile.
Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly
to have vanished away. She wrapped her cloak round her and without
looking at her husband:
"I am ready to go," she said, taking his arm. At the door of
the box she turned and looked straight at Chauvelin, who, with his
CHAPEAU-BRAS under his arm, and a curious smile round his thin lips,
was preparing to follow the strangely ill-assorted couple.
"It is only AU REVOIR, Chauvelin," she said pleasantly, "we
shall meet at my Lord Grenville's ball, anon."
And in her eyes the astute Frenchman, read, no doubt,
something which caused him profound satisfaction, for, with a
sarcastic smile, he took a delicate pinch of snuff, then, having
dusted his dainty lace jabot, he rubbed his thin, bony hands
contentedly together.
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