But it is nice to be made such a fool of.

I feel precisely like an elderly and sour governess who has been ordered to come down to dinner so that there shan't be thirteen.

Give me your arm, Mr.Falbe, and take me in to dinner at once, where I may drown my embarrassment in soup.

Or does Michael go in first?
Go on, wretch!" Presently they were seated at dinner, and Aunt Barbara could not help enlarging a little on her own discomfiture.
"It is all your fault, Michael," she said.

"You have been in London all these weeks without letting me know anything about you or your friends, or what you were doing; so naturally I supposed you were leading some obscure kind of existence.