as if everything belonged to her--“which it doesn’t at all, you know,” and talked as if her husband was the head of the house and her son the heir--“whereas, as soon as little Frogmore comes of age they must all pack off.” They thought it bad taste of Letitia not to have produced the boy. “If he’s as ill as that she might have had him on the sofa. He ought to have showed for a little,” they said. But Mrs. Parke was quite unconscious of their sentiments. There never had been a time in her life when she had so ignored them. Always till now she had retained a consciousness of what people would be saying. But this evening it had vanished from her mind. She was _fey_, as people say in Scotland; her prosperity had gone to her head and made her forget everything that was not delightful. Either some great and critical moment or perhaps death itself was in her way. “Well,” she said, when all was over, “it has gone off as I never saw anything go off before. Everything went well, the music and the floor and the supper and the temper of the people. They were all so pleasant. The old marchioness made me the prettiest of speeches. She said, ‘The Park has never been so brilliant as in your time.’ The young people hoped we would have one every year. I said perhaps--for after all there is nothing so easily managed as a ball when it _is_ a success.” “You must remember, Letitia,” said John, “that there cannot be very many years now before we’ve got to march out bag and baggage.” “Oh, don’t speak nonsense,” she cried incredulously. In the sweep of her excitement she would not receive that thought. “But, mother, it’s true,” said Duke. “I’ve liked the ball awfully. You are one for this sort of thing, nobody can do it like you. But of course when Mar comes of age----” “Oh, don’t speak to me of Mar. He’ll never come of age!” she cried in the wildness of her elated mood. There was a universal cry: “Letitia! Mother! Mamma!” in different tones of indignation and horror. She was driven out of all sense of decorum in her heat and excitement. “Oh, you set of fools!” Letitia said. CHAPTER XXXVII. Next morning Mar, who had slept little all night, was found to be feverish and unwell, which was a state of affairs by no means unusual or alarming, but which gave to Letitia a sort of additional triumph. “What did I say to you?” she cried. “You dragged him out of the quiet that is natural at his age and forced him to make a public appearance. You seem quite pleased with yourselves, all of you, though I told you what would happen. And here he is in bed again, and no telling when he may be allowed to get up.” “It was the walk yesterday, mamma,” said Letty, “and not sleeping, what with the noise and the music. It was not making that speech----” “Of course you must know best,” said the mother, “and you have favored me with your opinion to that effect before.”