THE HOUSEHOLD
About dusk Sir Peter arrived from lower Westchester while I was
dressing. Warned by the rattle of wheels from the coach-house at the
foot of the garden, and peering through the curtains, I saw the lamps
shining and heard the trample of our horses on the stable floor; and
presently, as I expected, Sir Peter came a-knocking at my door, and my
servant left the dressing of my hair to admit the master of the house.
He came in, his handsome face radiant--a tall, graceful man of forty,
clothed with that elegant carelessness which we call perfection, so
strikingly unobtrusive was his dress, so faultless and unstudied his
bearing.
There was no dust upon him, though he had driven miles; his clean skin
was cool and pleasantly tinted with the sun of summer, spotless his
lace at cuff and throat, and the buckles flashed at stock and knee and
shoe as he passed through the candle-light to lay a familiar hand upon
my shoulder.
"What's new, Carus?" he asked, and his voice had ever that pleasant
undertone of laughter which endears. "You villain, have you been making
love to Elsin Grey, that she should come babbling of Mr. Renault, Mr.
Renault, Mr. Renault ere I had set foot in my own hallway? It was
indecent, I tell you--not a word for me, civil or otherwise, not a
question how I had 'scaped the Skinners at Kingsbridge--only a flutter
of ribbons and a pair of pretty hands to kiss, and 'Oh, Cousin
Coleville! Is Mr. Renault kin to me, too?--for I so take it, having
freely bantered him to advantage at first acquaintance. Was I bold,
cousin?--but if you only knew how he tempted me--and he _is_ kin to you,
is he not?--and you are Cousin Betty's husband.' 'God-a-mercy!' said I,
'what's all this about Mr. Renault?--a rogue and a villain I shame to
claim as kin, a swaggering, diceing, cock-fighting ruffler, a-raking it
from the Out-Ward to Jew Street! Madam, do you dare admit to me that you
have found aught to attract you in the company of this monument of
foppery known as Carus Renault?'"
"Did you truly say that, Sir Peter?" I asked, wincing while my ears
grew hot.
"Say it? I did not say it, I bellowed it!" He shrugged his shoulders
and took snuff with an air. "The minx finds you agreeable," he
observed; "why?--God knows!"
"I had not thought so," I said, in modest deprecation, yet warming at
his words.
"Oh--had not thought so!" he mimicked, mincing over to the
dressing-table and surveying the array of perfumes and pomades and
curling irons. "Carus, you shameless rake, you've robbed all Queen
Street! Essence, pomade-de-grasse, almond paste, bergamot, orange,
French powder! By Heaven, man, do you mean to take the lady by storm or
set up a rival shop to Smith's 'Sign of the Rose'? Here, have your man
leave those two puffs above the ears; curl them loosely--that's it! Now
tie that queue-ribbon soberly; leave the flamboyant papillon style to
those damned Lafayettes and Rochambeaux! Now dust your master, Dennis,
and fetch a muslinet waistcoat--the silver tambour one. Gad, Carus, I'd
make a monstrous fine success at decorating fops for a guinea a
head--eh?"
He inspected me through his quizzing glass, nodded, backed away in
feigned rapture, and presently sat down by the window, stretching his
well-shaped legs.
"Damme," he said, "I meant to ask what's new, but you chatter on so
that I have no chance for a word edgeways. Now, what the devil is new
with you?"
"Nothing remarkable," I said, laughing. "Did you come to terms with Mr.
Rutgers for his meadows?"
"No," he replied irritably, "and I care nothing for his damned swamps
full of briers and mud and woodcock."
"It is just as well," I said. "You can not afford more land at
present."
"That's true," he admitted cheerfully; "I'm spending too much. Gad,
Carus, the Fifty-fourth took it out of us at that thousand-guinea main!
Which reminds me to say that our birds at Flatbush are in prime
condition and I've matched them."
I looked up at him doubtfully. Our birds had brought him nothing but
trouble so far.
"Let it pass," he said, noticing my silent disapproval; "we'll talk to
Horrock in the morning. Which reminds me that I have no money." He
laughed, drew a paper from his coat, and unfolding it, read aloud:
"1 pipe Madeira @ L90 per pipe--L90
1 pipe Port @ L46 per pipe--L46
20 gallons Fayal @ 5s. per gal.--
20 gallons Lisbon @ 5s. per gal.--
10 gallons Windward I. rum @ 4s. per gal."
He yawned and tossed the paper on my dresser, saying, "Pay it, Carus.
If our birds win the main we'll put the Forty-fifth under the table,
and I'll pay a few debts."
Standing there he stretched to his full graceful height, yawning once
or twice. "I'll go bathe, and dress for supper," he said; "that should
freshen me. Shall we rake it to-night?"
"I'm for cards," I said carelessly.
"_With_ Elsin Grey or _without_ Elsin Grey?" he inquired in affected
earnestness.
"If you had witnessed her treatment of me," I retorted, "you'd never
mistake it for friendly interest. We'll rake it, if you like. There's
another frolic at the John Street Theater. The Engineers play 'The
Conscious Lovers,' and Rosamund Barry sings 'Vain is Beauty's Gaudy
Flower.'"
But he said he had no mind for the Theater Royal that night, and
presently left me to Dennis and the mirror.
In the mirror I saw a boyish youth of twenty-three, dark-eyed, somewhat
lean of feature, and tinted with that olive smoothness of skin
inherited from the Renaults through my great-grandfather--a face which
in repose was a trifle worn, not handsome, but clearly cut, though not
otherwise remarkable. It was, I believed, neither an evil nor a sullen
brooding face, nor yet a face in which virtue molds each pleasing
feature so that its goodness is patent to the world.
Dennis having ended his ministrations, I pinned a brilliant at my
throat--a gift from Lady Coleville--and shook over it the cobweb lace
so it should sparkle like a star through a thin cloud. Then passing my
small sword through the embroidered slashing of my coat, and choosing a
handkerchief discreetly perfumed, I regarded myself at ease, thinking
of Elsin Grey.
In the light of later customs and fashions I fear that I was something
of a fop, though I carried neither spy-glass nor the two watches sacred
to all fops. But if I loved dress, so did his Excellency, and John
Hancock, not to name a thousand better men than I; and while I confess
that I did and do dearly love to cut a respectable figure, frippery for
its own sake was not among my vices; but I hold him a hind who, if he
can afford it, dresses not to please others and do justice to the
figure that a generous Creator has so patiently fashioned. "To please
others!" sang my French blood within me; "to please myself!" echoed my
English blood--and so, betwixt the sanguine tides, I was minded to
please in one way or another, nor thought it a desire unworthy. One
thing did distress me: what with sending all my salary to the prisons,
I had no money left to bet as gentlemen bet, nor to back a well-heeled
bird, nor to color my fancy for a horse. As for a mistress, or for
those fugitive affairs of the heart which English fashion
countenanced--nay, on which fashion insisted--I had no part in them,
and brooked much banter from the gay world in consequence. It was not
merely lack of money, nor yet a certain fastidiousness implanted, nor
yet the inherent shrinking of my English blood from pleasure forbidden,
for my Renault blood was hot enough, God wot! It was, I think, all of
these reasons that kept me untainted, and another, the vague idea of a
woman, somewhere in the world, who should be worth an unsullied
love--worth far more than the best I might bring to her one day. And so
my pride refused to place me in debt to a woman whom I had never known.
As for money, I had my salary when it was convenient for Sir Peter; I
had a small income of my own, long pledged to Colonel Willett's secret
uses. It was understood that Sir Peter should find me in apparel; I had
credit at Sir Peter's tailor, and at his hatter's and bootmaker's, too.
Twice a year my father sent me from Paris a sum which was engaged to
maintain a bed or two in the Albany hospital for our soldiers. I make no
merit of it, for others gave more. So, it is plain to see I had no money
for those fashionable vices in the midst of which I lived, and if I lost
five shillings at whist I felt that I had robbed some wretched creature
on the _Jersey_, or dashed the cup from some poor devil's lips who lay
a-gasping in the city prison.
My finery, then, was part and parcel of my salary--my salary in guineas
already allotted; so it came about that I moved in a loose and cynical
society, untainted only through force of circumstance and a pride that
accepts nothing which it may not return at interest.
* * * * *
When I descended to the dining-room I found all seated, and so asked
pardon of Lady Coleville, who was gay and amiable as usual, and, "for a
penance," as she said, made me sit beside her. That was no penance, for
she was a beauty and a wit, her dainty head swimming with harmless
mischief; and besides knowing me as she did, she was monstrous amusing
in a daring yet delicate fashion, which she might not use with any
other save her husband.
That, as I say, was therefore no penance, but my punishment was to see
Elsin Grey far across the table on Sir Peter's right, and to find in my
other neighbor a lady whose sole delight in me was to alternately shock
me with broad pleasantries and torment me with my innocence.
[Illustration: My punishment was to see Elsin Grey far across the
table.]
Rosamund Barry was her name, Captain Barry's widow--he who fell at
Breeds Hill in '76--the face of a Madonna, and the wicked wit of a lady
whose name she bore, _sans La du_.
"Carus," she said, leaning too near me and waving her satin painted
fan, "is it true you have deserted me for a fairer conquest?"
"The rumor nails itself to the pillory," I said; "who is fairer than
you, Rosamund?"
"You beg the question," she said severely, the while her dark eyes
danced a devil's shadow dance; "if you dare go tiptoeing around the
skirts of the Hon. Miss Grey, I'll tell her all--_all_, mind you!"
"Don't do that," I said, "unless you mean to leave New York."
"All about _you_, silly!" she said, flushing in spite of her placid
smile.
"Oh," I said, with an air of great relief, "I was sure you could not
contemplate confession!"
She laid her pretty head on one side. "I wonder," she mused, eying me
deliberately--"I wonder what this new insolence of yours might
indicate. Is it rebellion? Has the worm turned?"
"The worm has turned--into a frivolous butterfly," I said gaily.
"I don't believe it," she said. "Let me see if I can make you blush,
Carus!" And she leaned nearer, whispering behind her fan.
"Let me match that!" I said coolly. "Lend me your fan, Rosamund----"
"Carus!" exclaimed Lady Coleville, "stop it! Mercy on us, such
shameless billing and cooing! Captain O'Neil, call him out!"
"Faith," said O'Neil, "to call is wan thing, and the chune Mrs. Barry
sings is another. Take shame, Carus Renault, ye blatherin', bould
inthriguer! L'ave innocence to yer betthers!"
"To me, for example," observed Captain Harkness complacently. "Mrs.
Barry knows that raking fellow, Carus, and she knows you, too, you wild
Irishman----"
"If you only keep this up long enough, gentlemen," I said, striving to
smile, "you'll end by doing what I've so far avoided."
"Ruining his reputation in Miss Grey's eyes," explained Lady Coleville
pleasantly.
Elsin Grey looked calmly across at me, saying to Sir Peter, "He _is_ too
young to do such things, isn't he?"
That set them into fits of laughter, Sir Peter begging me to pause in
my mad career and consider the chief end of man, and Tully O'Neil
generously promising moral advice and the spiritual support of Rosamund
Barry, which immediately diverted attention from me to a lightning duel
of words between Rosamund and O'Neil--parry and thrust, innuendo and
eloquent silence, until Lady Coleville in pantomime knocked up the
crossed blades of wit, and Sir Peter vowed that this was no place for
an innocent married man.
When Lady Coleville rose we drew our swords and arched a way for her,
and she picked up her silken petticoat and ran under, laughing, one
hand pressed to her ears to shut out the cheers.
There were long black Spanish cigars, horribly strong, served with
spirits after the ladies had left. O'Neil and Harkness used them; Sir
Peter and I accepted the long cool pipes, and we settled for a
comfortable smoke.
Sir Peter spoke of the coming cock-fight with characteristic
optimism--not shared by Harkness, and but partially approved by O'Neil.
Details were solemnly discussed, questions of proper heeling, of silver
and steel gaffs, of comb and wattle cutting, of the texture of feather
and hackle, and of the "walks" at Flatbush and Horrock's method of
feeding in the dark.
Tiring of the subject, Harkness, spoke of the political outlook and
took a gloomy view, paying his Excellency a compliment by referring to
him as "no fox, but a full-grown wolf, with an appetite for a continent
and perhaps for a hemisphere."
"Pooh!" said Sir Peter, lazily sucking at his pipe, "Sir Henry has him
holed. We'll dig him out before snow flies."
"What folly, Sir Peter!" remonstrated Harkness, leaning forward so that
the candle-light blazed on his gold and scarlet coat. "Look back five
years, Sir Peter, then survey the damnable situation now! Do you
realize that to-day England governs but one city in America?"
"Wait," observed Sir Peter serenely, expelling a cloud of smoke so that
it wreathed his handsome head in a triple halo.
"Wait? Faith, if there's anything else to do but wait I'll take that
job!" exclaimed O'Neil ruefully.
"Why don't you take it, then?" retorted Sir Peter. "It's no secret, I
fancy--that plan of Walter Butler's--is it?" he added, seeing that we
knew nothing of any plan.
"Sir Henry makes no secret of it," he continued; "it's talked over and
disparaged openly at mess and at headquarters. I can see no
indiscretion in mentioning it here."
It was at such moments that I felt a loathing for myself, and such
strong self-disgust must surely have prevailed in the end to make me
false to duty if, as I have said, I had not an absolute faith that his
Excellency required no man to tarnish his honor for the motherland's
salvation.
"What's afoot?" inquired Harkness curiously.
"Why, you remember how the rebel General Sullivan went through the Six
Nations, devastating the Iroquois country, laying waste, burning,
destroying their orchards and crops--which, after all, accomplished the
complete destruction of our own granary in the North?"
"'Twas a dhirty thrick!" muttered O'Neil. "Sure, 'tis the poor naked
haythen will pay that score wan day, or I'm a Hessian!"
"They'll pay it soon if Walter Butler has his way," said Sir Peter.
"Sir John Johnson and the Butlers and Colonel Ross are gathering in the
North. Haldimand's plan is to strike at the rebels' food supply--the
cultivated region from Johnstown south and west--do what Sullivan did,
lay waste the rebel grain belt, burn fodder, destroy all orchards--God!
it will go hard with the frontier again." He swung around to Harkness:
"It's horrible to me, Captain--and Walter Butler not yet washed clean
of the blood of Cherry Valley. I tell you, loyal as I am, humble
subject of my King, whom I reverence, I affirm that this blackened,
blood-soaked frontier is a barrier to England which she can never,
never overcome, and though we win out to-day, and though we hang the
rebels thick as pears in Lispenard's orchards, that barrier will
remain, year by year fencing us in, crowding us back to the ocean, to
our ships, back to the land from whence we English came. And for all
time will the memory of these horrors set America's face against us--if
not for all time, yet our children's children and their children shall
not outlive the tradition burned into the heart of this quivering land
we hold to-day, half shackled, still struggling, already rising to its
bleeding knees."
"Gad!" breathed O'Neil, "'tis threason ye come singin' to the chune o'
Yankee Doodle-doo, Sir Peter."
"It's sense," said Sir Peter, already smiling at his own heat.
"So Ross and the Butlers are to strike at the rebel granaries?"
repeated Harkness, musing.
"Yes; they're gathering on the eastern lakes and at Niagara--Butler's
Rangers, Johnson's Greens, Brant's Iroquois, some Jaegers, a few
regulars, and the usual partizan band of painted whites who disgrace us
all, by Heaven! But there," added Sir Peter, smiling, "I've done with
the vapors. I bear no arms, and it is unfit that I should judge those
who do. Only," and his voice rang a little, "I understand battles, not
butchery. Gentlemen, to the British Army! the regulars, God bless 'em!
Bumpers, gentlemen!"
I heard O'Neil muttering, as he smacked his lips after the toast, "And
to hell with the Hessians! Bad cess to the Dootch scuts!"
"Did you say the rendezvous is at Niagara?" inquired Harkness.
"I've heard so. I've heard, too, of some other spot--an Indian
name--Thend--Thend--plague take it! Ah, I have it--Thendara. You know
it, Carus?" he asked, turning so suddenly on me that my guilty heart
ceased beating for a second.
"I have heard of it," I said, finding a voice scarce like my own.
"Where is it, Sir Peter?"
"Why, here in New York there has ever been a fable about a lost town in
the wilderness called Thendara. I never knew it to be true; but now
they say that Walter Butler has assigned Thendara as his gathering
place, or so it is reported in a letter to Sir Henry, which Sir Henry
read to me. Have _you_ no knowledge of it, Carus?"
"None at all. I remember hearing the name in childhood. Perhaps better
woodsmen than I know where this Thendara lies, but I do not."
"It must lie somewhere betwixt us and Canada," said Harkness vaguely.
"Does not Sir Henry know?"
"He said he did not," replied Sir Peter, "and he sent out a scout for
information. No information has arrived. Is it an Iroquois word,
Carus?"
"I think it is of Lenape origin," I said--"perhaps modified by the
Mohawk tongue. I know it is not pure Oneida."
Harkness glanced at me curiously. "You'd make a rare scout," he said,
"with your knowledge of the barbarians."
"The wonder is," observed Sir Peter, "that he is not a scout on the
other side. If my home had been burned by the McDonalds and the
Butlers, I'm damned if I should forget which side did it!"
"If I took service with the rebels," said I, "it would not be because
of personal loss. Nor would that same private misfortune deter me from
serving King George. The men who burned my home represent no great
cause. When I have leisure I can satisfy personal quarrels."
"Lord!" laughed Sir Peter, "to hear you bewail your lack of leisure one
might think you are now occupied with one cause or t'other. Pray, my
dear Carus, when do you expect to find time to call out these enemies
of yours?"
"You wouldn't have me deprive the King of Walter Butler's services,
would you?" I asked so gravely that everybody laughed, and we rose in
good humor to join the ladies in the drawing-rooms.
Sir Peter's house on Wall Street had been English built, yet bore
certain traces of the old Dutch influence, for it had a stoop leading
to the front door, and the roof was Dutch, save for the cupola; a fine
wide house, the facade a little scorched from the conflagration of '78
which had ruined Trinity Church and the Lutheran, and many fine
buildings and homes.
The house was divided by a wide hallway, on either side of which were
drawing-rooms, and in the rear of these was a dining-room giving on a
conservatory which overlooked the gardens. The ground floor served as a
servant's hall, with a door at the area and another in the rear leading
out through the garden-drive to the stables.
The floor above the drawing-rooms had been divided into two suites, one
in gold leather and blue for Sir Peter and his lady, the other in
crimson damask for guests. The third floor, mine, was similarly
divided, I occupying the Wall Street side, with windows on that
fashionable street and also on Broadway.
Thus it happened that, instead of entering the south drawing-room where
I saw the ladies at the card-table playing Pharaoh, I turned to the
right and crossed the north, or "state drawing-room," and parted the
curtains, looking across Broadway to see if I might spy my friend the
drover and his withered little mate. No doubt prudence and a dislike
for the patrol kept them off Broadway at that hour, for I could not see
them, although a few street lamps were lit and I could make out
wayfarers as far north as Crown Street.
Standing there in the dimly lighted room, my nose between the parted
curtains, I heard my name pronounced very gently behind me, and,
turning, beheld Miss Grey, half lying on a sofa in a distant corner. I
had not seen her when I entered, my back being turned to the east, and
I said so, asking pardon for an unintentional rudeness--which she
pardoned with a smile, slowly waving her scented fan.
"I am a little tired," she said; "the voyage from Halifax was rough,
and I have small love for the sea, so, Lady Coleville permitting, I
came in here to rest from the voices and the glare of too bright
candle-light. Pray you be seated, Mr. Renault--if it does not displease
you. What were you looking for from the window yonder?"
"Treason," I said gaily. "But the patrol should be able to see to that.
May I sit here a moment?"
"Willingly; I like men."
Innocence or coquetry, I was clean checked. Her white eyelids languidly
closing over the pure eyes of a child gave me no clue.
"All men?" I inquired.
"How silly! No, very few men. But that is because I only know a few."
"And may I dare to hope that--" I began in stilted gallantry, cut short
by her opening eyes and smile. "Of course I like you, Mr. Renault. Can
you not see that? It's a pity if you can not, as all the others tease
me so about you. Do you like me?"
"Very, _very_ much," I replied, conscious of that accursed color burning
my face again; conscious, too, that she noted it with calm curiosity.
"Very, _very_ much," she repeated, musing. "Is that why you blush so
often, Mr. Renault--because you like me very, _very_ much?"
Exasperated, I strove to smile. I couldn't; and dignity would not serve
me, either.
"If I loved you," said I, "I might change color when you spoke.
Therefore my malady must arise from other causes--say from Sir Peter's
wine, for instance."
"I knew a man who fell in love with me," she said. "You may do so yet."
"Do you think it likely?" I asked, scarcely knowing how to meet this
cool attack.
"I think it possible--don't you?" she asked.
I considered, or made pretense to. My heart had begun to beat too fast;
and as for her, I could no more fathom her than the sea, yet her babble
was shallow enough to strand wiser men than I upon its sparkling
shoals.
"I do like men," she said thoughtfully, "but not all men, as I said I
did. Now at supper I looked about me and I found only you attractive,
save Sir Peter, and he counts nothing in a game of hearts."
"When you come to mingle with New York society you will, no doubt, find
others far more attractive," I said stupidly.
"No doubt. Still, in the interim"--she looked straight at me from under
her delicate level brows--"in the meanwhile, will you not amuse me?"
"How, madam?"
"I shall not tell you if you call me 'madam.'"
"Will the Hon. Elsin Grey inform me how I may amuse her ladyship?"
"Nor that, either."
I hesitated, then leaned nearer: "How may I amuse you, Elsin?"
"Why, by courting me, silly!" she said, laughing, and spreading her
silken fan. "How else is a woman amused?"
Her smooth hand lay across the velvet arm of the sofa; I took it and
raised it to my lips, and she smiled approval, then drew a languid
little sigh, fanned, and vowed I was the boldest man she had ever
known.
I told her how exquisite her beauty was, I protested at her coldness, I
dedicated myself to her service, vowing eternal constancy; and
presently my elaborate expressions rang truer and grew more simple, and
she withdrew her hand with a laugh, looking at me out of those
beautiful eyes which now were touched with curiosity.
"For a jester, Carus, you are too earnest," she said.
"Does pretense frighten you?"
She regarded me, silent, smiling, her fan at her lips.
"You are playing with fire," she said.
"Tell me, heart of flint, am I the steel to strike a spark from?" I
asked, laughing.
"I do not know yet of what metal you are made, Carus," she said
thoughtfully, yet with that dim smile hovering ever upon her lips.
She dropped her fan and held up one finger. "Listen; let me read you.
Here is my measure of such a man as you: First of all, generous!--look
at your mouth, which God first fashions, then leaves for us to make or
mar. Second, your eyes--sincere! for though you blush like a maiden,
Carus, your eyes are steady to the eyes that punish. Third, dogged!
spite of the fierce impatience that sets your chiseled nose a-quiver at
the nostrils. There! Am I not a very gipsy for a fortune? Read me,
now."
After a long silence I said, "I can not."
"Truly?"
"Truly. I can not read you, Elsin."
She opened her palm and held her fingers, one by one, frowning in an
effort to be just: "First, I am a fool; second, I am a fool; third, I
am a fool; fourth----"
I caught her hand, and she looked at me with a charming laugh.
"I _am_," she insisted, her hand resting in mine.
"Why?"
"Why, because I--I am in love with Walter Butler--and--and I never
liked a man as well as I like you!"
I was astounded. She sighed, slowly shaking her head. "That is it, you
see. Love is very different from having a good time. He is so proud, so
sad, so buried in noble melancholy, so darkly handsome, and all afire
with passion--which advances him not a whit with me nor commends him to
my mercy--only when he stands before me, his dark golden eyes lost in
delicious melancholy; then, _then_, Carus, I know that it must be love I
feel; but it is not a very cheerful sentiment." She sighed again,
picking up her fan with one hand--I held the other.
"Now, with you--and I have scarce known you a dozen hours--it is so
charming, so pleasant and cheerful--and I like you so much, Carus!--oh,
the sentiment I entertain for you is far pleasanter than love. Have you
ever been in love?"
"I am, Elsin--almost."
"Almost? Mercy on us! What will the lady say to 'almost'?"
"God knows," I said, smiling.
"Good!" she said approvingly; "leave her in God's care, and practise on
me to perfect your courtship. I like it, really I do. It is strange,
too," she mused, with a tender smile of reminiscence, "for I have never
let Captain Butler so much as touch my hand. But discretion, you see,
is love; isn't it? So if I am so indiscreet with you, what harm is
there?"
"Are you unhappy away from him?" I asked.
"No, only when with him. He seems to wring my heart--I don't know why,
but, oh, I do so pity him!"
"Are you--plighted?"
"Oh, dear me, yes--but secretly. Ah, I should not have told you
that!--but there you are, Carus; and I do believe that I could tell you
everything I know if our acquaintance endures but twelve more hours. And
_that_," she added, considering me calmly, "is rather strange, I think.
Don't you?"
Ere I could reply came Sir Peter, talking loudly, protesting that it
was a monstrous shame for me to steal away their guest, that I was a
villain and all knew it, he himself best of all; and without more ado
he tucked her arm under his and marched triumphantly away, leaving me
there alone in the deserted room.
But as Elsin gained the door she turned, looking back, and, laying her
hand upon her lips, threw me a kiss behind Sir Peter's shoulders.