"You know perfectly well what I mean--it is not likely that any one would _look_ at me when Barbara was by--you can have no notion," continue I, speaking very fast to avoid contradiction, "how well she looks when she is dancing--never gets hot, or flushed, or _mottled_, as so many people do." "And _you_?
how do _you_ look ?" "I grow purple," I answer, laughing--"a rich imperial purple, all over.
If you had once seen me, you would never forget me." "Go on: tell me something more about Barbara!" He has settled himself with an air of extreme repose and enjoyment.

We really _are_ very comfortable.
"Well," say I, nothing loath, for I have always dearly loved the sound of my own voice, "do you see that man on the hearth-rug ?--do not look at him this very minute, or he will know that we are speaking of him.

I cannot imagine why father has asked him here to-night--he wants to marry Barbara; he has never said it, but I know he does: the boys--we all, indeed--call him _Toothless Jack_! he is not old _really_, I suppose--not more than fifty, that is; but for Barbara!--" I think that Sir Roger is beginning to find me rather tiresome: evidently he is not listening: he has even turned away his head.
There is a movement among the guests, the first detachment are bidding good-night, the rest speedily do the like.

Father follows his favorite miss into the hall, cloaks her with gallant care, and through the door I hear him playfully firing off parting jests at her as she drives away.
Then he returns to the drawing-room.

Sir Roger has gone to put on his smoking-coat, I suppose.