II

It was Lady Marmaduke, wife of Sir Henry of that clan, who had introduced

the amusing young American to Lady Beauchemin; after which Lady

Beauchemin had made him acquainted with her mother and sisters. Lady

Marmaduke too was of outland strain, remaining for her conjugal baronet

the most ponderable consequence of a tour in the United States. At

present, by the end of ten years, she knew her London as she had never

known her New York, so that it had been easy for her to be, as she called

herself, Jackson’s social godmother. She had views with regard to his

career, and these views fitted into a scheme of high policy which, if our

space permitted, I should be glad to lay before the reader in its

magnitude. She wished to add an arch or two to the bridge on which she

had effected her transit from America; and it was her belief that Doctor

Lemon might furnish the materials. This bridge, as yet a somewhat

sketchy and rickety structure, she saw—in the future—boldly stretch from

one solid pier to another. It could but serve both ways, for reciprocity

was the keynote of Lady Marmaduke’s plan. It was her belief that an

ultimate fusion was inevitable and that those who were the first to

understand the situation would enjoy the biggest returns from it. The

first time the young man had dined with her he met Lady Beauchemin, who

was her intimate friend. Lady Beauchemin was remarkably gracious, asking

him to come and see her as if she really meant it. He in fact presented

himself and in her drawing-room met her mother, who happened to be

calling at the same moment. Lady Canterville, not less friendly than her

daughter, invited him down to Pasterns for Eastertide, and before a month

had passed it struck him that, though he was not what he would have

called intimate at any house in London, the door of the house of Clement

opened to him pretty often. This seemed no small good fortune, for it

always opened upon a charming picture. The inmates were a blooming and

beautiful race, and their interior had an aspect of the ripest comfort.

It was not the splendour of New York—as New York had lately begun to

appear to the young man—but an appearance and a set of conditions, of

factors as he used to say, not to be set in motion in that city by any

power of purchase. He himself had a great deal of money, and money was

good even when it was new; but old money was somehow _more_ to the

shilling and the pound. Even after he learned that Lord Canterville’s

fortune was less present than past it was still the positive golden glow

that struck him. It was Lady Beauchemin who had told him her father

wasn’t rich; having told him furthermore many surprising things—things

both surprising in themselves and surprising on her lips. This was to

come home to him afresh that evening—the day he met Sidney Feeder in the

Park. He dined out in the company of Lady Beauchemin, and afterwards, as

she was alone—her husband had gone down to listen to a debate—she offered

to “take him on.” She was going to several places, at some of which he

must be due. They compared notes, and it was settled they should proceed

together to the Trumpingtons’, whither, it appeared at eleven o’clock,

all the world was proceeding, with the approach to the house choked for

half a mile with carriages. It was a close muggy night; Lady

Beauchemin’s chariot, in its place in the rank, stood still for long

periods. In his corner beside her, through the open window, Jackson

Lemon, rather hot, rather oppressed, looked out on the moist greasy

pavement, over which was flung, a considerable distance up and down, the

flare of a public-house. Lady Beauchemin, however, was not impatient,

for she had a purpose in her mind, and now she could say what she wished.

“Do you really love her?” That was the first thing she said.

“Well, I guess so,” Jackson Lemon answered as if he didn’t recognise the

obligation to be serious.

She looked at him a moment in silence; he felt her gaze and, turning his

eyes, saw her face, partly shadowed, with the aid of a street-lamp. She

was not so pretty as Lady Barb; her features had a certain sharpness; her

hair, very light in colour and wonderfully frizzled, almost covered her

eyes, the expression of which, however, together with that of her pointed

nose and the glitter of several diamonds, emerged from the gloom. What

she next said seemed somehow to fall in with that. “You don’t seem to

know. I never saw a man in so vague a state.”

“You push me a little too much; I must have time to think of it,” the

young man returned. “You know in my country they allow us plenty of

time.” He had several little oddities of expression, of which he was

perfectly conscious and which he found convenient, for they guarded him

in a society condemning a lonely New Yorker who proceeded by native

inspiration to much exposure; they ensured him the profit corresponding

with sundry sacrifices. He had no great assortment of vernacular

drolleries, conscious or unconscious, to draw upon; but the occasional

use of one, discreetly chosen, made him appear simpler than he really

was, and reasons determined his desiring this result. He was not simple;

he was subtle, circumspect, shrewd—perfectly aware that he might make

mistakes. There was a danger of his making one now—a mistake that might

gravely count. He was resolved only to succeed. It is true that for a

great success he would take a certain risk; but the risk was to be

considered, and he gained time while he multiplied his guesses and talked

about his country.

“You may take ten years if you like,” said Lady Beauchemin. “I’m in no

hurry whatever to make you my brother-in-law. Only you must remember

that you spoke to me first.”

“What did I say?”

“You spoke to me of Barb as the finest girl you had seen in England.”

“Oh I’m willing to stand by that.” And he had another try, which would

have been transparent to a compatriot. “I guess I like her type.”

“I should think you might!”

“I like her all round—with all her peculiarities.”

“What do you mean by her peculiarities?”

“Well, she has some peculiar ideas,” said Jackson Lemon in a tone of the

sweetest reasonableness, “and she has a peculiar way of speaking.”

“Ah, you can’t expect us to speak so well as you!” cried Lady Beauchemin.

“I don’t see why not.” He was perfectly candid. “You do some things

much better.”

“We’ve our own ways at any rate, and we think them the best in the

world—as they mostly are!” laughed Lady Beauchemin. “One of them’s not

to let a gentleman devote himself to a girl for so long a time without

some sense of responsibility. If you don’t wish to marry my sister you

ought to go away.”

“I ought never to have come,” said Jackson Lemon.

“I can scarcely agree to that,” her ladyship good-naturedly replied, “as

in that case I should have lost the pleasure of knowing you.”

“It would have spared you this duty, which you dislike very much.”

“Asking you about your intentions? Oh I don’t dislike it at all!” she

cried. “It amuses me extremely.”

“Should you like your sister to marry me?” asked Jackson with great

simplicity.

If he expected to take her by surprise he was disappointed: she was

perfectly prepared to commit herself. “I should like it particularly. I

think English and American society ought to be but one. I mean the best

of each. A great whole.”

“Will you allow me to ask whether Lady Marmaduke suggested that to you?”

he at once inquired.

“We’ve often talked of it.”

“Oh yes, that’s her aim.”

“Well, it’s my aim too. I think there’s a lot to be done.”

“And you’d like me to do it?”

“To begin it, precisely. Don’t you think we ought to see more of each

other? I mean,” she took the precaution to explain, “just the best in

each country.”

Jackson Lemon appeared to weigh it. “I’m afraid I haven’t any general

ideas. If I should marry an English girl it wouldn’t be for the good of

the species.”

“Well, we want to be mixed a little. That I’m sure of,” Lady Beauchemin

said.

“You certainly got that from Lady Marmaduke,” he commented.

“It’s too tiresome, your not consenting to be serious! But my father

will make you so,” she went on with her pleasant assurance. “I may as

well let you know that he intends in a day or two to ask you your

intentions. That’s all I wished to say to you. I think you ought to be

prepared.”

“I’m much obliged to you. Lord Canterville will do quite right,” the

young man allowed.

There was to his companion something really unfathomable in this little

American doctor whom she had taken up on grounds of large policy and who,

though he was assumed to have sunk the medical character, was neither

handsome nor distinguished, but only immensely rich and quite

original—since he wasn’t strictly insignificant. It was unfathomable to

begin with that a medical man should be so rich, or that so rich a man

should be medical; it was even, to an eye always gratified by suitability

and, for that matter, almost everywhere recognising it, rather

irritating. Jackson Lemon himself could have explained the anomaly

better than any one else, but this was an explanation one could scarcely

ask for. There were other things: his cool acceptance of certain

situations; his general indisposition to make comprehension easy, let

alone to guess it, with all his guessing, so much hindered; his way of

taking refuge in jokes which at times had not even the merit of being

American; his way too of appearing to be a suitor without being an

aspirant. Lady Beauchemin, however, was, like her puzzling friend

himself, prepared to run a certain risk. His reserves made him slippery,

but that was only when one pressed. She flattered herself she could

handle people lightly. “My father will be sure to act with perfect

tact,” she said; “though of course if you shouldn’t care to be questioned

you can go out of town.” She had the air of really wishing to act with

the most natural delicacy.

“I don’t want to go out of town; I’m enjoying it far too much here,”

Jackson cried. “And wouldn’t your father have a right to ask me what I

should mean by that?”

Lady Beauchemin thought—she really wondered. But in a moment she

exclaimed: “He’s incapable of saying anything vulgar!”

She hadn’t definitely answered his inquiry, and he was conscious of this;

but he was quite ready to say to her a little later, as he guided her

steps from the brougham to the strip of carpet which, beneath a rickety

border of striped cloth and between a double row of waiting footmen,

policemen and dingy amateurs of both sexes, stretched from the curbstone

to the portal of the Trumpingtons: “Of course I shan’t wait for Lord

Canterville to speak to me.”

He had been expecting some such announcement as this from Lady Beauchemin

and really judged her father would do no more than his duty. He felt he

should be prepared with an answer to the high challenge so prefigured,

and he wondered at himself for still not having come to the point.

Sidney Feeder’s question in the Park had made him feel rather pointless;

it was the first direct allusion as yet made to his possible marriage by

any one but Lady Beauchemin. None of his own people were in London; he

was perfectly independent, and even if his mother had been within reach

he couldn’t quite have consulted her on the subject. He loved her

dearly, better than any one; but she wasn’t a woman to consult, for she

approved of whatever he did: the fact of his doing it settled the case

for it. He had been careful not to be too serious when he talked with

Lady Barb’s relative; but he was very serious indeed as he thought over

the matter within himself, which he did even among the diversions of the

next half-hour, while he squeezed, obliquely and with tight arrests,

through the crush in the Trumpingtons’ drawing-room. At the end of the

half-hour he came away, and at the door he found Lady Beauchemin, from

whom he had separated on entering the house and who, this time with a

companion of her own sex, was awaiting her carriage and still “going on.”

He gave her his arm to the street, and as she entered the vehicle she

repeated that she hoped he’d just go out of town.

“Who then would tell me what to do?” he returned, looking at her through

the window.

She might tell him what to do, but he felt free all the same; and he was

determined this should continue. To prove it to himself he jumped into a

hansom and drove back to Brook Street and to his hotel instead of

proceeding to a bright-windowed house in Portland Place where he knew he

should after midnight find Lady Canterville and her daughters. He

recalled a reference to that chance during his ride with Lady Barb, who

would probably expect him; but it made him taste his liberty not to go,

and he liked to taste his liberty. He was aware that to taste it in

perfection he ought to “turn in”; but he didn’t turn in, he didn’t even

take off his hat. He walked up and down his sitting-room with his head

surmounted by this ornament, a good deal tipped back, and with his hands

in his pockets. There were various cards stuck into the frame of the

mirror over his chimney-piece, and every time he passed the place he

seemed to see what was written on one of them—the name of the mistress of

the house in Portland Place, his own name and in the lower left-hand

corner “A small Dance.” Of course, now, he must make up his mind; he’d

make it up by the next day: that was what he said to himself as he walked

up and down; and according to his decision he’d speak to Lord Canterville

or would take the night-express to Paris. It was better meanwhile he

shouldn’t see Lady Barb. It was vivid to him, as he occasionally paused

with fevered eyes on the card in the chimney-glass, that he had come

pretty far; and he had come so far because he was under the spell—yes, he

was under the spell, or whatever it was, of Lady Barb. There was no

doubt whatever of this; he had a faculty for diagnosis and he knew

perfectly what was the matter with him. He wasted no time in musing on

the mystery of his state; in wondering if he mightn’t have escaped such a

seizure by a little vigilance at first, or if it would abate should he go

away. He accepted it frankly for the sake of the pleasure it gave

him—the girl was the delight of most of his senses—and confined himself

to considering how it would square with his general situation to marry

her. The squaring wouldn’t at all necessarily follow from the fact that

he was in love; too many other things would come in between. The most

important of these was the change not only of the geographical but of the

social standpoint for his wife, and a certain readjustment that it would

involve in his own relation to things. He wasn’t inclined to

readjustments, and there was no reason why he should be: his own position

was in most respects so advantageous. But the girl tempted him almost

irresistibly, satisfying his imagination both as a lover and as a student

of the human organism; she was so blooming, so complete, of a type so

rarely encountered in that degree of perfection. Jackson Lemon was no

Anglomaniac, but he took peculiar pleasure in certain physical facts of

the English—their complexion, their temperament, their tissue; and Lady

Barb had affected him from the first as in flexible virginal form a

wonderful compendium of these elements. There was something simple and

robust in her beauty; it had the quietness of an old Greek statue,

without the vulgarity of the modern simper or of contemporary prettiness.

Her head was antique, and though her conversation was quite of the

present period Jackson told himself that some primitive sincerity of soul

couldn’t but match with the cast of her brow, of her bosom, of the back

of her neck, and with the high carriage of her head, which was at once so

noble and so easy. He saw her as she might be in the future, the

beautiful mother of beautiful children in whom the appearance of “race”

should be conspicuous. He should like his children to have the

appearance of race as well as other signs of good stuff, and wasn’t

unaware that he must take his precautions accordingly. A great many

people in England had these indications, and it was a pleasure to him to

see them, especially as no one had them so unmistakably as the second

daughter of the Cantervilles. It would be a great luxury to call a

creature so constituted one’s own; nothing could be more evident than

that, because it made no difference that she wasn’t strikingly clever.

Striking cleverness wasn’t one of the signs, nor a mark of the English

complexion in general; it was associated with the modern simper, which

was a result of modern nerves. If Jackson had wanted a wife all

fiddlestrings of course he could have found her at home; but this tall

fair girl, whose character, like her figure, appeared mainly to have been

formed by riding across country, was differently put together. All the

same would it suit his book, as they said in London, to marry her and

transport her to New York? He came back to this question; came back to

it with a persistency which, had she been admitted to a view of it, would

have tried the patience of Lady Beauchemin. She had been irritated more

than once at his appearing to attach himself so exclusively to that horn

of the dilemma—as if it could possibly fail to be a good thing for a

little American doctor to marry the daughter of an English peer. It

would have been more becoming in her ladyship’s eyes that he should take

this for granted a little more and take the consent of her ladyship’s—of

their ladyships’—family a little less. They looked at the matter so

differently! Jackson Lemon was conscious that if he should propose for

the young woman who so strongly appealed to him it would be because it

suited him, and not because it suited his possible sisters-in-law. He

believed himself to act in all things by his own faculty of choice and

volition, a feature of his outfit in which he had the highest confidence.

It would have seemed, indeed, that just now this part of his inward

machine was not working very regularly, since, though he had come home to

go to bed, the stroke of half-past twelve saw him jump not into his

sheets but into a hansom which the whistle of the porter had summoned to

the door of his hotel and in which he rattled off to Portland Place.

Here he found—in a very large house—an assembly of five hundred persons

and a band of music concealed in a bower of azaleas. Lady Canterville

had not arrived; he wandered through the rooms and assured himself of

that. He also discovered a very good conservatory, where there were

banks and pyramids of azaleas. He watched the top of the staircase, but

it was a long time before he saw what he was looking for, and his

impatience grew at last extreme. The reward, however, when it came, was

all he could have desired. It consisted of a clear smile from Lady Barb,

who stood behind her mother while the latter extended vague finger-tips

to the hostess. The entrance of this charming woman and her beautiful

daughters—always a noticeable incident—was effected with a certain spread

of commotion, and just now it was agreeable to Jackson to feel this

produced impression concern him probably more than any one else in the

house. Tall, dazzling, indifferent, looking about her as if she saw very

little, Lady Barb was certainly a figure round which a young man’s fancy

might revolve. Very rare, yet very quiet and very simple, she had little

manner and little movement; but her detachment was not a vulgar art. She

appeared to efface herself, to wait till, in the natural course, she

should be attended to; and in this there was evidently no exaggeration,

for she was too proud not to have perfect confidence. Her sister, quite

another affair, with a little surprised smile which seemed to say that in

her extreme innocence she was still prepared for anything, having heard,

indirectly, such extraordinary things about society, was much more

impatient and more expressive, and had always projected across a

threshold the pretty radiance of her eyes and teeth before her mother’s

name was announced. Lady Canterville was by many persons more admired

and more championed than her daughters; she had kept even more beauty

than she had given them, and it was a beauty which had been called

intellectual. She had extraordinary sweetness, without any definite

professions; her manner was mild almost to tenderness; there was even in

it a degree of thoughtful pity, of human comprehension. Moreover her

features were perfect, and nothing could be more gently gracious than a

way she had of speaking, or rather of listening, to people with her head

inclined a little to one side. Jackson liked her without trepidation,

and she had certainly been “awfully nice” to him. He approached Lady

Barb as soon as he could do so without an appearance of rushing up; he

remarked to her that he hoped very much she wouldn’t dance. He was a

master of the art which flourishes in New York above every other, and had

guided her through a dozen waltzes with a skill which, as she felt, left

absolutely nothing to be desired. But dancing was not his business

to-night. She smiled without scorn at the expression of his hope.

“That’s what mamma has brought us here for,” she said; “she doesn’t like

it if we don’t dance.”

“How does she know whether she likes it or not? You always have danced.”

“Oh, once there was a place where I didn’t,” said Lady Barb.

He told her he would at any rate settle it with her mother, and persuaded

her to wander with him into the conservatory, where coloured lights were

suspended among the plants and a vault of verdure arched above. In

comparison with the other rooms this retreat was far and strange. But

they were not alone; half a-dozen other couples appeared to have had

reasons as good as theirs. The gloom, none the less, was rosy with the

slopes of azalea and suffused with mitigated music, which made it

possible to talk without consideration of one’s neighbours. In spite of

this, though it was only in looking back on the scene later that Lady

Barb noted the fact, these dispersed couples were talking very softly.

She didn’t look at them; she seemed to take it that virtually she was

alone with the young American. She said something about the flowers,

about the fragrance of the air; for all answer to which he asked her, as

he stood there before her, a question that might have startled her by its

suddenness.

“How do people who marry in England ever know each other before marriage?

They have no chance.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she returned. “I never was married.”

“It’s very different in my country. There a man may see much of a girl;

he may freely call on her, he may be constantly alone with her. I wish

you allowed that over here.”

Lady Barb began to examine the less ornamental side of her fan as if it

had never invited her before. “It must be so very odd, America,” she

then concluded.

“Well, I guess in that matter we’re right. Over here it’s a leap in the

dark.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she again made answer. She had folded her fan;

she stretched out her arm mechanically and plucked a sprig of azalea.

“I guess it doesn’t signify after all,” Jackson however proceeded.

“Don’t you know they say that love’s blind at the best?” His keen young

face was bent upon hers; his thumbs were in the pockets of his trousers;

he smiled with a slight strain, showing his fine teeth. She said

nothing, only pulling her azalea to pieces. She was usually so quiet

that this small movement was striking.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in the least without a lot of

people,” he went on.

“Yes, it’s very tiresome.”

“I’ve been sick of it. I didn’t want even to come here to-night.”

She hadn’t met his eyes, though she knew they were seeking her own. But

now she looked at him straight. She had never objected to his

appearance, and in this respect had no repugnance to surmount. She liked

a man to be tall and handsome, and Jackson Lemon was neither; but when

she was sixteen, and as tall herself as she was to be at twenty, she had

been in love—for three weeks—with one of her cousins, a little fellow in

the Hussars, who was shorter even than the American, was of inches

markedly fewer than her own. This proved that distinction might be

independent of stature—not that she had ever reasoned it out. Doctor

Lemon’s facial spareness and his bright ocular attention, which had a

fine edge and a marked scale, unfolded and applied rule-fashion, affected

her as original, and she thought of them as rather formidable to a good

many people, which would do very well in a husband of hers. As she made

this reflexion it of course never occurred to her that she herself might

suffer true measurement, for she was not a sacrificial lamb. She felt

sure his features expressed a mind—a mind immensely useful, like a good

hack or whatever, and that he knew how to employ. She would never have

supposed him a doctor; though indeed when all was said this was very

negative and didn’t account for the way he imposed himself.

“Why, then, did you come?” she asked in answer to his last speech.

“Because it seems to me after all better to see you this way than not to

see you at all. I want to know you better.”

“I don’t think I ought to stay here,” she said as she looked round her.

“Don’t go till I’ve told you I love you,” the young man distinctly

replied.

She made no exclamation, indulged in no start; he couldn’t see even that

she changed colour. She took his request with a noble simplicity, her

head erect and her eyes lowered. “I don’t think you’ve quite a right to

tell me that.”

“Why not?” Jackson demanded. “I want to claim the right. I want you to

give it to me.”

“I can’t—I don’t know you. You’ve said that yourself.”

“Can’t you have a little faith?” he at once asked, speaking as fast as if

he were not even a little afraid to urge the pace. “That will help us to

know each other better. It’s disgusting, the want of opportunity; even

at Pasterns I could scarcely get a walk with you. But I’ve the most

absolute trust of you. I _know_ I love you, and I couldn’t do more than

that at the end of six months. I love your beauty, I love your nature, I

love you from head to foot. Don’t move, please don’t move.” He lowered

his tone now, but it went straight to her ear and we must believe

conveyed a certain eloquence. For himself, after he had heard himself

say these words, all his being was in a glow. It was a luxury to speak

to her of her beauty; it brought him nearer to her than he had ever been.

But the colour had come into her face and seemed to remind him that her

beauty wasn’t all. “Everything about you is true and sweet and grand,”

he went on; “everything’s dear to me. I’m sure you’re good. I don’t

know what you think of me; I asked Lady Beauchemin to tell me, and she

told me to judge for myself. Well, then, I judge you like me. Haven’t I

a right to assume that till the contrary’s proved? May I speak to your

father? That’s what I want to know. I’ve been waiting, but now what

should I wait for longer? I want to be able to tell him you’ve given me

hope. I suppose I ought to speak to him first. I meant to, to-morrow,

but meanwhile, to-night, I thought I’d just put this in. In my country

it wouldn’t matter particularly. You must see all that over there for

yourself. If you should tell me not to speak to your father I

wouldn’t—I’d wait. But I like better to ask your leave to speak to him

than ask his to speak to you.”

His voice had sunk almost to a whisper, but, though it trembled, the fact

of his pleading gave it intensity. He had the same attitude, his thumbs

in his trousers, his neat attentive young head, his smile, which was a

matter of course; no one would have imagined what he was saying. She had

listened without moving and at the end she raised her eyes. They rested

on his own a moment, and he remembered for a long time the look, the

clear effluence of splendid maidenhood, as deep as a surrender, that

passed her lids.

Disconcertingly, however, there was no surrender in what she answered.

“You may say anything you please to my father, but I don’t wish to hear

any more. You’ve said too much, considering how little idea you’ve given

me before.”

“I was watching you,” said Jackson Lemon.

She held her head higher, still looking straight at him. Then quite

seriously, “I don’t like to be watched,” she returned.

“You shouldn’t be so beautiful then. Won’t you give me a word of hope?”

“I’ve never supposed I should marry a foreigner,” said Lady Barb.

“Do you call me a foreigner?”

“I think your ideas are very different and your country different.

You’ve told me so yourself.”

“I should like to show it to you. I would make you like it.”

“I’m not sure what you’d make me do,” she went on very honestly.

“Nothing you don’t want.”

“I’m sure you’d try,” she smiled as for more accommodation.

“Well,” said Jackson Lemon, “I’m after all trying now.”

To this she returned that she must go to her mother, and he was obliged

to lead her out of the place. Lady Canterville was not immediately

found, so that he had time to keep it up a little as they went. “Now

that I’ve spoken I’m very happy.”

“Perhaps you’re happy too soon.”

“Ah, don’t say that, Lady Barb,” he tenderly groaned.

“Of course I must think of it.”

“Of course you must!” Jackson abundantly concurred. “I’ll speak to your

father to-morrow.”

“I can’t fancy what he’ll say.”

“How can he dislike me? But I guess he doesn’t!” the young man cried in

a tone which Lady Beauchemin, had she heard him, would have felt

connected with his general retreat upon the quaint. What Lady

Beauchemin’s sister thought of it is not recorded; but there is perhaps a

clue to her opinion in the answer she made him after a moment’s silence:

“Really, you know, you _are_ a foreigner!” With this she turned her

back, for she was already in her mother’s hands. Jackson Lemon said a

few words to Lady Canterville; they were chiefly about its being very

hot. She gave him her vague sweet attention, as if he were saying

something ingenious but of which she missed the point. He could see she

was thinking of the ways of her daughter Agatha, whose attitude toward

the contemporary young man was wanting in the perception of differences—a

madness too much without method; she was evidently not occupied with Lady

Barb, who was more to be depended on. This young woman never met her

suitor’s eyes again; she let her own rest rather ostentatiously on other

objects. At last he was going away without a glance from her. Her

mother had asked him to luncheon for the morrow, and he had said he would

come if she would promise him he should see his lordship. “I can’t pay

you another visit till I’ve had some talk with him.”

“I don’t see why not, but if I speak to him I daresay he will be at

home,” she returned.

“It will be worth his while!” At this he almost committed himself; and

he left the house reflecting that as he had never proposed to a girl

before he couldn’t be expected to know how women demean themselves in

this emergency. He had heard indeed that Lady Barb had had no end of

offers; and though he supposed the number probably overstated, as it

always is, he had to infer that her way of appearing suddenly to have

dropped him was but the usual behaviour for the occasion.