At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle. On the right were several mounted grenadiers: on the left, some half dozen javelin-men. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Gerald at once rid himself of his own glass and leapt to her assistance.
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