Explore "Quicksands" by B.M. Croker on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was the middle of November, months had flown like weeks, and days like hours. The annual great ball at the Residency was imminent. For a ball no more auspicious place could possibly be selected than the splendid Durbar Hall, with its fine teak floor and crystal chandeliers -- said to have been "borrowed" from the French at Pondicherry. Everyone on Government House list had received invitations, and guests were flocking not only from the city of Hyderabad and the cantonments, but from Raichore and even far distant Poona. I had a lovely new ball-dress held in reserve for this supreme occasion. It was the white and silver gown which I had worn when Mrs. Hayes-Billington told me that I was "lovely." Of course she was a flatterer, but, whatever I might be, I don't think there could be any question with respect to my frock.
Just as my toilet was completed and I was taking "a last fond look" the ayah introduced an enormous bouquet on a tray. It was not my style of bouquet in the least -- tight in structure and overpowering as to perfume; moreover, I had grave suspicions as to the donor.