'Miss Mallett!' he bawled. 'Miss Sophia Mallett! Miss Rose Mallett!
Miss Henrietta Mallett!'
The moment had come. Henrietta lifted her head, settled her shoulders
and prepared to meet the eyes of Francis Sales. The Malletts had
arrived between the first and second dances and the guests sitting
round the walls had an uninterrupted view of the stately entrance.
Mrs. Batty, in diamonds and purple satin, greeted the late-comers with
enthusiasm and James Batty escorted Caroline and Sophia to arm-chairs
that had all the appearance of thrones. Mrs. Batty patted Henrietta on
the shoulder.
'Pretty dear,' she said. 'Here you are at last. There are a lot of
boys with their programmes half empty till you come, and my Charles,
too. Not that he's much for dancing. I've told him he must look after
the ugly ones. We're going to have a quadrille for your aunts' sake!'
And then, whispering, she asked, 'What do you think of it? I said if
we had it at all, we'd have it good.'
'It's gorgeous!' Henrietta said, and off the stage she had never seen
a grander spectacle. The platform at the end of the room was banked
with flowers and behind them uniformed and much-moustached musicians
played with ardour, with rapture, their eyes closing sentimentally in
the choicest passages. Baskets of flowers hung from the chandeliers,
the floor was polished to the slipperiness of ice and Mrs. Batty, on
her hospitable journeys to and fro, was in constant danger of a fall.
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