[_Sitting upright._] Oh, my gracious goodness, goodness gracious me!
There's only one terrible word for it--it's a fix!
It's worse than that! It's a scrape! How did you ever get led into it?
How did _we_ get led into it? Halves, Sheba, please.
It was Major Tarver's proposal, and I believe, Salome, that it is to _you_ Major Tarver is paying attention.
The Fancy Dress Masked Ball at Durnstone is promoted by the Officers of the Hussars. I believe that the young gentleman you have impressed calls himself an officer, though he is merely a lieutenant.
[_Indignantly._] Mr. Darbey is _certainly_ an officer--a small officer. How dare you gird at me, Salome?
Very well, then. When to-night we appear at the Durnstone Athenaeum, unknown to dear Papa, on the arms of Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey, I consider that we shall be equally wicked. Oh, how can we be so wrong?
Well, we're not wrong yet. We're only _going_ to be wrong; that's a very different matter.
That's true. Besides, there's this to remember--we're inexperienced girls and have only dear Papa. But oh, now that the Ball is to-night, I repent, Sheba, I repent!
I sha'n't do that till to-morrow. But oh, how I _shall_ repent to-morrow!
[_Taking an envelope from her pocket, and almost crying._] You'd repent now if you had seen the account for the fancy dresses.
Yes, the Major enclosed it to me this morning. You know, Sheba, Major Tarver promised to get the dresses made in London, so I gave him our brown paper patterns to send to the _costumier._
[_Shocked._] Oh, Salome, do you think he quizzed them?
No; I sealed them up and marked outside "To be opened only by a lady."
That's all right. I hate the plan of myself in brown paper.
Well, of course Major Tarver begged to be allowed to pay for the dresses, and I said I couldn't dream of permitting it, and then he said he should be most unhappy if he didn't, and, just as I thought he was going to have his own way, [_bursting into tears_] he cheered up and said he'd yield to a lady. [_Taking a large account from the envelope._] And oh! he's yielded.
[_Reading._] "Debtor to Lewis Isaacs, _Costumier_ to the Queen, Bow Street. One gown--period French Revolution, 1798--Fifteen guineas!"
[_Sinking on her knees, clutching the table._] Oh!