At night there was no doubt whatever that Florence Heathcote's eyes
looked their best. By night they were invariably dark; their brightness
was enhanced by artificial light. They were softened, too, particularly
at such a table as Colonel Arbuthnot and his daughter prepared for their
guests. For nothing would induce the Colonel to have anything but
candles on his dinner-table. Candles, in large silver branches, adorned
the board; and if girls don't know, they ought to be informed that there
is no possible light so soft and becoming to eyes and complexion as that
caused by these minor stars of illumination. There is no garishness in
the light of a candle, and it does not make hideous revelations like
electricity nor cause the deep shadows that a gaselier flings on your
head.
Florence, in spite of herself, was feeling a little sad to-night, and
that sadness gave the final touch to her charms. She was quite pleased
to be taken into dinner by her old playmate, Michael Reid. She told him
so in her sweet, bright, open way.
"What a lot we shall have to talk of!" she said. "How long is it since
I have first known you?"
He tried to count the years on his fingers and then, moved by an
inspiration, said--
"No; I won't count--I can't count. I have known you for ever."
"Oh," she said, with a laugh; "but of course you haven't." And then,
rather to his horror, she called across the table to Brenda--"When did
we first meet Michael? I mean, how old were you?"
Brenda was talking very gently to an elderly clergyman--a dull sort of
man, who always, however, appealed to Brenda because, as she said to her
sister, he was so very good. She paused and looked thoughtful; and
Susie, at the bottom of the table, gave her silk lining a swish. After
a minute's thought, Brenda said--
"We have known you, Michael, for four years." And then she related in a
gentle but penetrating voice the occasion of their first meeting.
"Florence was," she said, "fourteen at the time. She is eighteen now.
You pulled her hair: you were a very rough boy indeed, and you made Flo
cry."
"No, that he didn't!" interrupted Florence. "He put me into a towering
passion."
"Yes," pursued Brenda, "and you cried while you were in the passion."
"I don't know how to apologise," said the somewhat discomfited
lieutenant: "but I suppose boys will be boys."
"And girls will be girls," said Florence. "You would not pull my hair
now, would you?"
He looked at her lovely hair, arranged in the most becoming fashion and
yet so simply, and murmured something which she could not quite catch
but which caused her ears to tingle, for she was quite unaccustomed to
compliments except among her school-fellows, and they did not count.
After dinner, the pair found themselves alone for a few minutes. Then
Reid drew a chair close to Florence's side, and said--
"I wish with all my heart and soul that you were as poor as a church
mouse, so that I might show you what a man's devotion can do for a
girl."
Florence found herself turning pale--not at the latter part of his
speech but at the beginning; for was she not quite as poor as a church
mouse? in fact, poorer, for even the church mouse manages to exist; and
she could not exist beyond quite a limited time on the small amount of
money which the girls possessed between them.
By and by the dance began, and they did go out under the stars. Reid
felt almost in love. He had always admired pretty Florence, and
to-night she looked so charming--so young, so very girlish, and yet
there was a certain stateliness about her. She was an unopened bud as
yet, but full of rare promise. He thought of what she might be in a
year--in two years. Other men would discover her charms. Oh, if only
she would promise herself to him!
He did not dare to say too much that night; but while he was thinking
about her, and she was looking up at the stars, and his chance of making
that remark about her eyes was so very easy, she suddenly said something
which put the whole idea out of his head.
"You have made a remarkable statement since we came here this evening,
and I do just wonder if you meant it."
"I meant every single word I said. How could I possibly mean anything
else to you?"
"That is what I want to find out. I am very young, and you are the only
man I have ever known. At school we used to talk about men and what
they did and said and thought; and, of course, we always had our
dreams."
"Of course you had," said Reid. "All girls have. Do whisper to me what
yours were like."
"No; I can't do that, for they were so fleeting. One day I imagined one
thing about a man, another day, another. But you said the sort of thing
to me to-night which--which I did not expect, and which--which I can't
forget."
"Do tell me what it was," asked the puzzled lieutenant. He was racking
his own brain to remember.
"You expressed a wish that I were as poor as a church mouse. What a
very funny thing to say!"
"Oh, it's that you are thinking of," said Reid. "Well, I meant it. I
meant that I should like you to be poor in order to show you what a
fellow will do for a really lovely girl whom he--" and then he drew
himself up abruptly and said no more, for he was afraid of going too
far.
"Thank you," said Florence. "Then you are one of the men who do not
care for a girl because she is rich?"
"I!" said Reid, being certain by Florence's manner that she must have
over a thousand a year. "I should hate myself if I did."
"I am so glad to hear it," said Florence. "I respect you very much."
"I am glad--" he said, in a gentle tone.
"Do let us walk up and down by the laurel hedge; we needn't go in for
the next dance, need we?"
"I promised it to Mr Cunliffe."
"Oh--cut his dance. Never mind him; stay with me. Surely I am more
interesting to you than Cunliffe."
"Yes, you are; far more interesting: in fact, I don't care about him at
all. Nevertheless, I don't like to cut men's dances."
"You will have plenty of opportunity to make up for all omissions when
you go to London. I suppose you will be going there soon."
"Perhaps so," said Florence; who, however, by no means wished to revert
to her future.
"When you go," pursued Lieutenant Reid, "you will see plenty of me, for
I am quartered at Knightsbridge for the present. I shall come to see
you whenever I can."
"That will be very kind of you."
"Not at all. It is not a kindness to give oneself a pleasure--at least,
I don't think so."