PHYLLIDA.

P.S. _Pray come_.

P.P.S. _I saw a Red Coat not unknown to a certain young lady now

resident at Curtain Wells. The said Red Coat made a most polite

bow_."

Ph. C.

Then Phyllida sealed the note with one of her new wafers, and Thomas

unscrewed the knob of his tall stick and put the note inside and the

shilling-piece in his waistcoat pocket and marched away down the High

Street, while Phyllida rushed off with her muff held up to the East wind

which was quite cold when one was walking so fast. For the Western

Colonnade, you turned to the right, but if you were going to Curtain

Garden, you turned to the left, and Phyllida turned to the left.

She had to pass the end of the Crescent on her way, and hurried past,

afraid for her life to see Mrs. Courteen sailing round the corner. She

was now outside the Great House, and could not help looking up to the

big bow-windows to see if Mr. Ripple was there. There he was, very calm

and very dignified, but a little out of focus because his windows all

had such very thick glass. She caught his eye, and the Great little Man

smiled at her. She smiled back and blushed, thinking of the meeting of

yesterday. Suddenly the window shot up, and Phyllida turned her head to

see the Beau beckoning. She stopped in dismay, while Mr. Ripple, having

first spread his handkerchief on the sill, leaned out to speak to her.

"Pray pardon this ungenteel summons, my dear Miss Courteen, but if you

would not consider yourself compromised by such an adventure, I should

be vastly honoured by your inspection of some proper new prints which

have fallen into my hands."

Miss Courteen was overwhelmed by this invitation. What could she do but

murmur assent?

The Beau, with a delightfully suave gesture, hurried to open the front

door for Miss Courteen who tripped up the dazzling white steps, all

swansdown and blushes.

Mr. Ripple begged her to follow him upstairs to the drawing-room and be

seated before the fire.

It was a fine high room of good proportions, with three large

sash-windows and a wrought-iron balcony running along the breadth of the

house. The walls were panelled and painted white, and the floor was

stained and varnished to a glaze of immense brilliancy. The rugs

scattered about it were Aubusson, of rare hues in fawn and puce and

faded lavender and old rose interwoven with queer dead greens. There

were several prints on the walls, mostly after Watteau and Fragonard.

The whole room wore the indescribable air that is only to be found in

the house of a bachelor of comfortable means, good taste and a certain

age. There was no trace of a woman's hand in its arrangement, and yet

one felt that the owner, through long seclusion from the other sex, had

softened towards it with the years until, secure at last, he was able to

admit a feminine cirrhus into the limpid and rarefied air of his remote

celibacy.

Phyllida, as she watched the firelight ripple in orange wavelets across

the surface of the blue and white Dutch tiles set on either side of the

hob, wondered what the Beau meant by this sudden invitation.

Just then he begged to be excused for a moment while he fetched the

portfolio containing his new purchase.

She heard the door gently closed and looked round the room.

How tall and white it was, just like Mr. Ripple's hand, smooth and white

and exquisitely shaped. Outside, the grey weather mellowed the ivory of

the room. There was a curious stillness as of frost, and she watched the

reflection of the fire leaping in opalescent miniature about the high

windows. There was a new spinet, set at an angle to the rest of the

furniture, in a case of light-coloured wood, painted with cupids,

zephyrs and roses, all waxen-pale. The tall, quiet chamber began to

depress her spirits, so that she felt compelled to strike the extreme

treble note of the spinet which through the stillness rang out like the

unwonted pipe of a bird in a hot August woodland.

At last, Phyllida, whose whole body was beginning to tingle with the

effort of waiting in such breathless quiet, heard some one coming

upstairs. Gog, the Beau's diminutive negro, entered with a silver tray;

on which small and shining lake swam coffee cups like swans or fairy

shells. The Great little Man followed close upon the dusky heels of his

squire and soon Phyllida found herself sipping her coffee in easy

conversation with the King of Curtain Wells.

"Do you know the, Maze? he was asking.

"Oh yes," said Phyllida.

"A pleasant spot, cool and green."

"It is indeed."

"I often sit there," said the Beau.

"'Tis a pleasant spot."

"Less fortunate than my poetick namesake, I have no plane-tree there, no

long-buried Falernian; but I am unjust to my time, for, after all, I

have Curtain Garden and Chalybeate that springs from the depths of

earth," continued the Beau, half to himself.

Phyllida was not quite sure what he was talking about, but agreed

politely.

"My dear Miss Courteen," said the Beau suddenly, "may I say something

very abrupt and perhaps intolerably free, but nevertheless something

which I feel ought to be said?"

"Oh yes, sir," Phyllida replied, wishing devoutly that she was well out

of this tall, white room.

"My dear Miss Courteen," he went on, "I am a man who knows something of

life on its merely social side. I have been an observer, if I may say

so, a naturalist of humanity. My self-chosen attitude has forbidden me

all passion, save that which is the recognized privilege of an audience.

Of love I am supposed to know nothing, save in that third person whose

company is unwelcome and superfluous. Perhaps my devotion to the _Odes_

has led me to see too many Lalages, too many Lyces. Perhaps I regard

women too much as roses that bloom, scatter their sweets and die. In a

word, perhaps I am unsympathetick."

"I don't think you are at all, sir," cried Phyllida, surprized by her

own boldness.

"Thank you," said the Beau, with the merest hint of a tremour in his

equable voice.

"But," he went on, "if I regard women as roses, I never seek to pluck

them: most men do. Miss Phyllida, pray pardon a man of some age who

cares more for Youth than he is willing to admit, who is not quite the

phantastick, the fop, the cynick that his subjects make him out. You

know what Shakespeare says: 'Each man in his time plays many parts.' I,

my dear, have remained for more than thirty years faithful to one. That

is why I am considered so eccentrick--well, well, I grow loquacious. My

dear Miss Courteen, it is very unwise to make assignations in the pride

of youth. Assignations belong to the middle-aged, the disillusioned. If

you love a young gentleman, make no secret of it, and let the whole

world join in your happiness; but if it be necessary to love this young

gentleman in Mazes and such clandestine spots, this young gentleman is

not worth so much devotion. Who is he?"

"Mr. Amor, Sir," said Phyllida, feeling half inclined to cry.

"Amor? Amor? I don't know the family. Is it by his wish these meetings

are kept secret? Yes! yes! I know 'tis very romantick and very

rapturous, but, believe me, my dear Miss Courteen, it is not worth the

cost. You must think of your reputation."

"I do, Mr. Ripple, indeed I do--all the time!"

"Come, come then, present me to your Amor at the Chinese Masquerade.

I'll talk to the rogue, and egad! we'll have the wedding in June. What

do you say?"

"I don't think Mr. Amor would be very willing, and I'm sure my mamma

would be monstrous vexed."

"Nonsense," said the Beau, "nonsense! You won't be happy, till you've

packed yourself into a post-chaise smelling vilely of stale tobacco and

horse-cloths. And when you've found some Fleet Street parson to marry

you, you'll wish for a fine wedding and a bride-cake, and your tenants

cheering and holloaing at the lodge-gates."

Here the Beau showed himself too unfamiliar with the mind of a young

woman. The idea of eloping had never yet entered that dainty head of

glistening chestnut curls; but from that moment Phyllida began to play

with the notion.

"Come, come," he went on, "let's have no more of clandestine courtship.

Heiresses and dace both attract by reason of their silver: libertines

and pike have much in common. Moreover, you must think of your mother."

"I doubt you don't know my mamma very well. She swears I'm but a child,

but I'm not a child, am I, sir?"

Mr. Ripple put up his monocle and solemnly stared at his fair

impenitent.

"You are not a very old woman."

"Besides, my mamma doesn't understand the meaning of love."

"My dear young lady," protested the Beau, "that is a very common error

with the young. Don't you think that shaded lane once lisped to her

footsteps? Don't you think April once broke as sweet for her?"

"Well, if it did," argued Phyllida, "she's forgotten all she ever knew."

"Come, come, I dare swear she has a secret drawer fragrant with cedar.

Find it, my dear Miss Phyllida, and you'll find many old letters, many

withered nosegays."

"Indeed, I've searched."

"Perhaps her escritoire is the heart."

"'Tis very well for you, Sir, to talk thus, but my parents were never

happy."

The Beau mentally cursed the pertinacious memories of servants.

"Then, if that was the case," he went on, "there is the greater reason

for your friends to secure you against such an irreparable misadventure.

Now come, you'll present me to this Mr. Amor? I may not understand all

women, but trust me, I have a tolerable knowledge of men."

The pale February sun cast a watery beam through the high windows and

Mr. Ripple's face caught an added lustre, was in fact so bright and

kindly that Phyllida promised, subject to Mr. Amor's consent.

And soon they were both bending over the portfolio of prints--very

diverting prints they were too, caricatures of the foibles of fashion.

It was certainly very delightful to see tranquil monarch and fervent

maid laughing very heartily together at the most prodigious head-dress

the world ever saw.

_Chapter the Fifteenth_