Her waist made no pretence of fine-ladyship,
but the bodice was close laced _a la mode_ to parade the riches of her
bosom. Strong and gloriously alive, and abundantly a woman--so she smiled
at the world.
It was a delirious hour for Harry, that dinner. He knew that Alison was
pleased to be in the gayest spirits, and his father, in his father's own
flamboyant style, seconded her heartily. He joined in, too, and seemed to
himself loud and vapid, yet had no power of restraint. It was as though
his usual placid, critical mind were detached and watched himself in the
happy exuberance of drunkenness--which was a state unknown to him, for
excess of liquor could only move him with drowsy gloom. And in the midst
of the noise Mrs. Weston sat, pale and silent, a ghost at the feast.
He was glad when his father spoke of going, though he found himself
talking some folly against it, on Alison's side, who jovially mocked the
Colonel for shyness. But Colonel Boyce, it appeared, had made up his
mind, and Harry was surprised at the masterful ease with which, keeping
the empty fun still loud, he extricated himself and his unwilling son.
They were all at the door, a noisy, laughing company, and the
horses waited.
"It's no use, ma'am," Harry cried, "he knows how to get his way,
_monsieur mon pere_.
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