'I was to give you a treat or
present, and you could not think of one. Now you have done so. Let
me hear what it is, and I'll be as good as my word.'
'To go to the Yeomanry Ball that's to be given this month.'
'The Yeomanry Ball--Yeomanry Ball?' he murmured, as if, of all
requests in the world, this was what he had least expected. 'Where
is what you call the Yeomanry Ball?'
'At Exonbury.'
'Have you ever been to it before?'
'No, sir.'
'Or to any ball?'
'No.'
'But did I not say a gift--a present?'
'Or a treat?'
'Ah, yes, or a treat,' he echoed, with the air of one who finds
himself in a slight fix. 'But with whom would you propose to go?'
'I don't know. I have not thought of that yet.'
'You have no friend who could take you, even if I got you an
invitation?'
Margery looked at the moon. 'No one who can dance,' she said;
adding, with hesitation, 'I was thinking that perhaps--'
'But, my dear Margery,' he said, stopping her, as if he half-divined
what her simple dream of a cavalier had been; 'it is very odd that
you can think of nothing else than going to a Yeomanry Ball. Think
again. You are sure there is nothing else?'
'Quite sure, sir,' she decisively answered. At first nobody would
have noticed in that pretty young face any sign of decision; yet it
was discoverable.
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