A MORNING CALL.
At nine o'clock the next morning, an hour later than his usual time,
Robert Streightley entered his little dining-room and sat down to
breakfast. He looked pale and fatigued; and there was an unnatural and
unusual brightness in his eyes that at once attracted the notice of
old Alice, who had been the nurse of his childhood, and was now the
housekeeper and confidential servant of the little family. The old
lady was jealously careful of the health of "her boy," as she always
spoke of him, and was accustomed to use the license of tongue allowed
her in many caustic remarks. She came into the room just as Robert
seated himself at the table, and at once commenced to address him in
her least conciliatory manner.
"O, you have got down at last, have you, Master Robert? I thought you
was never coming, and there you might have lied before I'd have come
up to help you! That's what I say, and what I mean."
"What's the matter, Alice? you don't seem pleased this morning."
"Pleased? Who should be pleased, and a lovely steak and mushrooms left
to burn itself away to a cinder, and you never coming home to dinner.
To dinner, indeed!--not coming home till all hours of the night. I
heard your key in the lock, though you thought I was asleep, as all
good Christians ought to have been at such an hour--but I heard you.
And not foreign-post night either, nor West Indy mail, nor one of them
City dinners, else you'd have been home to dress or took your bag with
you to the office. Well, it's not for an old woman like me to say, but
there's no doubt you're doing too much, slaving like no blackamoor
that ever I read of, and all for what? All for---- It's as good bacon
as ever was cured, though you do push your plate away in that fashion.
Try a bit, Master Robert--come now!"
"I can't, Alice. My mouth's out of taste. I've no appetite this
morning; give me a cup of tea,--there's a dear soul,--and let me be
quiet."
"Let you be quiet! You don't think I'd bother you, do you? Cup of tea,
indeed. You'll want more than a cup of tea if you go on in this way,
sitting up till all hours and fagging yourself over your business. I'm
sure your 'ma and Miss Ellen will think you looking quite ill, when
they come back from York; and it's all that dratted office as is doing
it. I should like to see any body else who sticks to it as you do, and
all for what--that's what I want to know? All for what? If you was a
struggling on with nine children to educate and do for, you couldn't
grind at it harder than you do; and you'll find it out sooner than you
expect. Ah, Robert!" exclaimed the old woman, suddenly softening in
her tone, and coming up close to him, "Robert, my own dear boy, don't
be so headstrong, deary; don't work your life away in this fashion.
There's no one knows you so well as I do, and I see you're doing too
much, and you're beginning to show it. Don't work so hard, my boy, my
own dear boy!"
Robert Streightley put up his big arm and pulled down the old woman's
head, and pressed her hard rough cheek, down which the tears were
flowing silently, close to his own. Then, with an affectation of
cheerfulness, he said:
"Why, Alice! why, nurse! you must not fancy such foolish things, old
lady. I am perfectly well and hearty; only a little done-up this
morning, perhaps, after an extra pressure of business yesterday, which
kept me up rather later than usual, but otherwise all right."
"I'm a foolish old woman, I know, Robert; but I love you very dearly,
and you're all I've left to love; and when you don't come home, I get
frightened and nervous, and fancy you're doing too much, and, that you
ought to be here, in the dining-room, reading your newspaper or having
your little nap, as usual, in the evenings, instead of working away at
that horrible office to all hours. And you won't be home to-day again,
I suppose?"
"O yes, indeed I shall! What made you think that?"
"Why, you've got on that blue frock-coat, and a white waistcoat, and
your best cravat; just for all as you dress yourself when you go to
them ship-launches, or Greenwich dinners of your companies, or other
places which keep you away from where you're best--at your own home."
Streightley smiled, rather a ghastly smile, as he said: "O no I'm only
going to call on some rather particular people who--it's best to--at
all events--I mean who are accustomed to something different from
us--City fellows, you know!"
It was feebly said, and feebly received by old Alice, who looked very
grim, and only remarked: "Ay, ay--ay, ay!"
He made but a very poor apology for a breakfast, and said not a great
deal more to his old friend, who stood by, vainly hoping for that
"chat" with her boy which was the prime event of her day. But this
morning Robert Streightley was preoccupied; he sat over the table long
after he had finished eating, idly playing with the crumbs, and
evidently buried in thought. At length he roused himself, and after
referring several times nervously to his watch, he started for town.
It was his habit to go by omnibus; and from his long residence at
Brixton he was known to all the coachmen on the road, each of whom on
passing gave him a semi-respectful semi-inviting salutation. But
Robert Streightley was not inclined for an omnibus-ride this morning;
he felt somehow that such a mode of conveyance would not accord with
the world a glimpse of which he had had on the previous day, nor with
the errand on which he was proceeding; so he hailed the first
disengaged hansom, and was driven rapidly to Queen Anne Street. So
rapidly, that when he alighted from the cab at the corner of the
street he found it yet wanted twelve minutes of eleven, the hour he
had named for his interview with Mr. Guyon. He could not be before his
time; that would be as much against the strict business rule in which
he had been brought up as being behind it would argue either leisure
or a strong interest in the matter then on hand, and neither
supposition he thought advisable in respect to him. So he determined
to eke out the time; and for that purpose strolled up a side street,
and found himself gazing vacantly on the dressing and exercising of
horses and the washing of carriages, in a mews, at the entrance to
which he stood for some little time. After walking round and round,
and circling a very narrowed square, he found that the back part of
Mr. Guyon's house looked into this mews; and then he busied himself
with wondering which was Miss Guyon's room, and whether she were there
at that time, and whether she had thought of him since the interview
in the City, and what she had thought of him, and---- And then looking
at his watch, he found the eventful hour had arrived; so he walked
boldly round, and, ringing the bell, demanded to see Mr. Guyon.
A colourless footman with light hair and weak eyes, in a very
washed-out lilac-striped jacket and dusty gray trousers, answered the
bell, and showed Streightley into the dining-room. This was a
cheerless apartment, painted salmon-colour, with a dozen Cromwell
chairs in faded American cloth and spurious oak ranged round the room,
but with some genuine ancestors, a Lely, a couple of Knellers, a
Reynolds--such a conception of female childish purity and grace!--and
a Lawrence, hanging on the walls. The Turkey carpet was faded and
patched; the green table-cover was stained and torn; the window-blinds
were yellow, and damp-stained; and every where there was a _laissez
aller_ which generally bespeaks the absence of female government.
The mantelpiece was covered with purple velvet blurred with sticky
rings made by overflowing glasses; in the centre of it lay an
oxydised-silver cigar-ash holder in the form of an open spread leaf,
in which still remained the ends of a couple of half-smoked cigars;
and in the looking-glass, between the glass and the frame, were
invitation-cards, photographs of boxers, and ladies of the Parisian
theatres, all wearing the same scanty drapery and leering the
selfsame leer,--applications for payment of queen's taxes, and
notices that the "collector had called" for the water-rate. Robert
Streightley had gazed round him; and with the power of appreciation
innate in him had remarked these various objects and indications when
the door opened quickly, and Mr. Guyon entered the room.
Mr. Guyon, none but he; no mistaking him. In the bold face that
flashed upon him Streightley recognised a coarser and stronger
rendering of Miss Guyon's every feature: the delicately-cut slightly
aquiline nose, the small rounded chin, the vivacious green-gray eye.
Mr. Guyon's hair, which was rather sparse and thin, was of a different
colour from his daughter's; was indeed in itself of two distinct hues,
being very black and glossy in certain lights, and very purple and
lustreless in others. His complexion, too, was peculiar,--mottled and
speckled, something like a plover's egg, save just under the eyes, on
the top of the cheekbones, where it had a very roseate hue. He was
dressed in a loose blue-silk jacket with a red collar and red
sleeve-linings, and wore a pair of Turkish trousers, tied round the
waist with a cord like a bell-rope. His turn-down collar was cut very
low, showing a great deal of bony throat; his wristbands were long,
fastened with elaborate carbuncle studs, and coming far down over his
white, well-shaped hands. He wore striped-silk socks of the rather
loud pattern,--which, seen at the theatre under the loose garb of the
mandarin, enables us to make a tolerably accurate guess at the
identity of the person in the pantomime who is to be "afterwards
clown,"--and natty red-morocco slippers. He came into the room with a
rush, had Robert Streightley by the hand in an instant, and forced him
into a chair as he said,
"Mr. Streightley, this is kind indeed! This is an honour I can never
forget!"
Streightley, rather taken aback at the warmth of his reception,
said, "it is nothing, Mr. Guyon. I can assure you I merely called
because----"
"I know, my dear sir, I know. My daughter explained to me what she did
yesterday, and how generously you received her." Robert's eyes
brightened as he listened. "Women, you know, my dear sir, are all
impulse. You are a married man, my dear Mr. Streightley? No! well,
still, my dear sir, I daresay--ha, ha!--that you have thorough
experience of the other sex. When a man is young, and pleasing, and
rich--O yes, by George, rich ha, ha!--he has opportunities of studying
the other sex, even if he be not married. Not married? Let me see,
what was I saying? O, my daughter--who is the prop and sunshine of my
life, the dearest and most devoted creature in the world--my daughter
has told me of the document which caused her such fright. It was--it
was merely the--usual notice, I suppose?"
"It was the usual notice."
As Streightley said this, a loud peal at the door-bell attracted his
attention.
"And the amount?"
"A hundred and eighty pounds odd--stay, I have the bill with me;" and
drawing out his pocketbook, Robert produced the document. As he did
this, he heard the street-door opened, and the sound of a man's
footsteps passing the dining-room and going upstairs. His heart sank
within him. He would swear to that footfall--swear to it any where;
had he not heard it twelve hours before echoing up the hollow
staircase in Crown Office Row? It was that man; and he was going
upstairs to see Miss Guyon, doubtless in fulfilment of some
appointment made during the exchange of bows and glances at the
carriage-door last night. He turned deadly pale, and his lips
trembled.
"Will you allow me to look at that bill?" said Mr. Guyon in his most
mellifluous tones. "Thank you. How your hand trembles!--a little chill
perhaps. Draw closer to the fire. We seem to have begun the cold
weather already. For my own part, I could always endure a fire--O,
this is really very bad of Davidson; very bad indeed!" He had been
surveying the document which Streightley had handed to him through a
pair of gold double eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose; and
he now looked over them at Streightley as he repeated, "Very bad
indeed!"
"I--I beg your pardon--my attention was diverted. What did you say?"
"I said, Mr. Streightley," said Mr. Guyon with increased sternness,
"that this is a very bad business of Davidson's. I gave him this
acceptance, sir, to help him in--the what do you call it?--the hour of
need, under the full understanding that he would meet it. It was for
his convenience, not for mine. I never had a shilling of the produce;
and now he leaves me to discharge it at a time when he knows that----"
"That it will be inconvenient to meet it?"
"You anticipate my words, sir. What with paying calls on shares, and
investments in certain other affairs which I have authority--almost as
good as yours, my dear sir--for believing in, my balance at my
banker's is at its lowest permissible ebb."
"If it will be any accommodation to you, Mr. Guyon, I'll send my
cheque to meet this acceptance; and I'll take another from you at
three months," said Streightley nervously. If he were ever to be
received upstairs, it must be through the father's influence.
"My dear sir, a thousand thanks! I'm really very much obliged to
you--very much obliged. I'm sure any terms which----"
"I think the Bank rate is three and a half just now," interrupted
Streightley with a slight smile; "we money-brokers charge one per cent
in advance of that. So that you see I make something of you after
all."
"My dear sir," said Mr. Guyon, advancing towards him with outstretched
hand, "you endeavour to make light of an obligation; but I'm too much
of an old soldier not to know the service you have rendered me. And I
thank you for it--I thank you for it! In these levelling days, when a
gentleman meets a gentleman, they should close ranks and march
together, by George! Give me your hand, sir. I'm proud to make your
acquaintance. I hope to renew it. There are not many that Ned Guyon
sees at his table, because, perhaps, he's infernally particular, and
does not choose to mix with cads. But those who come are of the right
sort; and he'll be proud to see you among them."
"You're very good, I'm sure," said Streightley. "Perhaps you'll give
me a call in the City in a day or two, and we'll put this matter on a
business footing. And now I must be off. I shall be delighted to come
whenever you ask me--and--my compliments to Miss Guyon. Good-day!" and
with a warm shake of his new acquaintance's hand--a shake which was
enthusiastically returned--Robert Streightley took his departure.
Left to himself, Mr. Guyon plunged his hands into the pockets of his
Turkish trousers and strode several times up and down the room,
finally stopping in front of the looking-glass and soliloquising: "A
rum start,--a devilish rum start! I thought I'd seen every variety of
discounters, but I never met one who behaved like that before. What
the devil was his motive? he had one, of course; but what the devil
was it?"
Meanwhile a very different scene was being enacted in the
drawing-room. Robert Streightley's prescience had not deceived him.
The ring at the bell, which acted with such electrical effect on
Streightley's nerves, was given by the young man whom he had followed
to his chambers on the previous evening; the footstep passing up the
staircase was his footstep; and the colourless footman, throwing open
the drawing-room door, announced him as "Mr. Gordon Frere." Miss Guyon
looked up from the flowers she was tending, and her cheek slightly
flushed. The flush was very becoming to Miss Guyon--at least Mr. Frere
approved of it highly, as he did of her high-cut mouse-coloured plush
dress, her neat linen collar fastened with a handsome dead-gold
brooch, her long cuffs, and her simply-arranged hair.
"You are early, Mr. Frere," said Miss Guyon, as she extended her hand
to her visitor; but she made the remark in a tone which marked her
approval of the circumstance.
"Yes," he replied; "I feared you might have gone to the Park, if I
came later."
"I don't ride to-day," said Katharine with a bright smile; "papa is
busy, and I did not make any other arrangements."
She moved away from the table over which she had been bending as she
spoke, and seated herself in a low chair, happily placed in the shade
of the window-curtain. Gordon Frere took his seat upon an ottoman near
her, and contemplated the lining of his hat with close attention. Not
that he was at all awkward--awkwardness was not in Mr. Frere's nature,
certainly not in his habits--but he was not a particularly ready
talker, and under the circumstances this seemed the correct thing to
do. Katharine Guyon's manners were, in certain respects, perfect; they
were, indeed, rather too perfect and independent; she presented too
complete a contrast to the drooping-lily style of girl; and she never
suffered from a sense of embarrassment. It was not, therefore, shyness
which lent her downy cheek that beautiful flush it had worn at the
entrance of her visitor, and continued to wear, or that softened
glance which darkened the colour and deepened the expression of her
eyes. She was very glad to see him, and she showed her gladness; and
there was a pleasant gleeful ring in the tone in which she talked to
him of the various but trivial events of the preceding day, of their
common acquaintances, and of the delights of last night's opera.
Her voice and accent were remarkably refined, and the tone of her
conversation, though its matter was only of the ordinary kind, was far
removed from the commonplace. She touched her topics lightly and
easily, let them go without too much handling, and gradually infused
into her companion some of the brightness and buoyancy which animated
herself. Gordon Frere had seen her sufficiently often to be familiar
with most of her moods, and with all the variations of her appearance,
for hers was by no means the "beauty for ever unchangingly bright,"
which is also undeniably uninteresting; but he began to think that he
had never seen her to so much advantage as on this occasion, and to
discover new charms in her, as she sat and talked to him, in her clear
fresh voice, and her low happy laughter broke every now and then the
tenor of their dialogue.
What did they talk about? That would be difficult to tell; and the
discourse, written down, which suffices to charm and engross two young
persons, already very well disposed to regard each other as the most
bewitching and delightful individuals in the world, would have
singularly little attraction for a third party outside that enchanted
pale, which encloses within a magic circle the sayings and doings of
those under the spell. The pleasantest "talks" are those which have
the least in them; the best-remembered interviews are frequently those
in which there have been no salient features, of which it would be
hardest to render an account,--those in which acquaintance passes into
knowledge, and grows into friendship after a strange fashion,
distinctly felt, but not to be described. When the transition is not
from acquaintance to friendship, but from liking to love, the process
is even more difficult of description; and a transition of this kind
was taking place in the pretty, if not particularly neat, drawing-room
which formed so striking a contrast to the apartment beneath it, in
which Mr. Guyon and Robert Streightley had held a parley, destined to
influence the future fate of Katharine and her visitor very
materially.
What did they not talk of? that is to say, within the wide range of
topics possessing interest for their young light hearts. The
festivities performed during the past week, and anticipated for that
to come; the prospects of a charitable bazaar, at which Miss Guyon had
kindly consented to take a stall (Mr. Frere was very happy in his
anticipation of the unqualified success of the speculation); the Opera
_répertoires_ for the season; the last new varieties of flowers at the
Botanical (Miss Guyon loved flowers and understood them); the last new
novel, and the forthcoming poem by the Laureate. Then they discussed
Tennyson in general, and Katharine quoted him in particular--an
achievement in which Gordon Frere could not imitate her, his
appreciation being vague, though genuine; and Katharine "tried over"
one or two of the airs which they agreed to prefer among those in
fashion just then; and time flew, and the young people felt decidedly
happy.
Miss Guyon played brilliantly; her music had a great deal of the
"dash" about it which characterised her appearance and her general
demeanour. She was one of those women who do every thing well which
they undertake at all, and the finish of her manner extended to all
she did. She had another peculiarity; perhaps not a safe or
advantageous one in the end, but pleasant and effective then. She
could do certain things with impunity which girls in her position,
however effectually "come out," could not have attempted. She set
conventionality aside when it suited her to do so; but the boldest and
most ill-natured critic would never have accused her of outraging it.
The men who tempt women into departure from the rules, made and
appointed for their conduct and customs by a society more remarkable
for suspicion than for intelligence, are precisely those who most
severely condemn them for yielding to the temptation. But there was
neither guidance nor following in Miss Guyon's case. She was an
exceptional woman, placed in circumstances which are, fortunately, not
very common; and she went her own way, and kept, to it unmolested; and
if not uncriticised, criticised as little as any one possessing youth,
beauty, talent, and individuality of character, could expect to be.
So Miss Guyon talked to Gordon Frere, and played for his delectation,
and quoted poetry to him, and made herself most agreeable; and his
stay prolonged itself much beyond the customary limits of a morning
visit; and yet she never felt that this was any thing unusual, or was
conscious that her self-possession was beyond that of other girls, or
her manner more assured than theirs. She never thought about it at
all; she enjoyed the present time and the young man's society; she
accredited him with all sorts of social talents and bright congenial
tastes; and no suspicion ever occurred to her that he was merely
reflecting some of her own readiness, brilliancy, and versatility. And
Gordon Frere, was not "he too in Arcadia"? Over the girl's whole
bearing an indescribable softness, a winning grace was thrown,--the
subtle, all-powerful charm created by the desire of pleasing; perhaps
the most potent, and frequently the most unconscious, in a woman's
possession. She looked her best, she talked her best, the animation of
her manner never passing the bounds of perfect refinement, but ever
spontaneous and unsubdued; the simple grace of her figure, the
sensitive beauty of her face must have touched and warmed a duller man
than Gordon Frere. There was a delicious flattery in her undisguised
pleasure in his society which he felt with a subtler sense than he had
ever before experienced; for there was no one to share it here. She
was shining, she was sparkling for him alone. This was something
different, something much more delightful than the ride in the Row,
or the dance in the ball-room, to which he was tolerably well
accustomed, and which he might have gone on enjoying for some time
longer without being inspired by the intense admiration which began to
possess him as he looked at her, and listened to her, as he recognised
the genuine charm of her manner, unspoiled by the faintest tinge of
self-consciousness or coquetry.
"Do you know much of the City?" Katharine said, after a slight pause
in their conversation; "do you often go there?"
"No, indeed," said Frere; "I seldom have occasion; and my rambles
eastwards rarely extend beyond the Temple. But why do you ask? Do you
take an interest in the City?"
"I do," she returned thoughtfully; "I should like to explore it
thoroughly for the sake of its present and its past. I have never seen
any thing of it since I was a child, and they took me to the Tower,
and Guildhall, and the Thames Tunnel all on the same day; and I
remember nothing but a hideous figure of Queen Elizabeth, the
block--which frightened me--Gog and Magog, and my own fatigue. I was
horribly tired when I came home; and when, on another holiday, they
wanted to take me to St. Paul's, and told me about the winding stairs
and the whispering gallery, I positively declined the proposed
diversion. So I have never really seen the City. I drove through a
part of it yesterday, and a very dingy part it was too; and I thought
how much I should like to see it all and think over it all."
"I don't suppose many people think of it in that way," said Mr. Frere;
"to the world at large it's only a huge counting-house, a busy
beehive, a crowd of places where money is to be made, and of men
intent on making it."
"But even in that aspect it is very interesting," said Katharine; "and
in that aspect I was considering it when I looked at the great
warehouses and offices, and saw the names whose very sound is golden,
the names famous all over the world. But, after all, these people must
lead horribly stupid lives, for ever toiling at money-getting. I don't
suppose they have time to enjoy spending it when it is made. Only
fancy how dreadful to have to go to these dingy places every day, and
stay there all day long."
"That is true," said Gordon Frere. "The lives of City men do not seem
very enviable, or indeed bearable to us; but there must be a
compensation in them. Some of them must absolutely _like_ plodding,
for they go on with it long after they need not, as a matter of
choice."
"Do they?" asked Katharine in a tone of surprise. "I saw a 'City man'
when I was there,--I had a little business to attend to for papa, as
he was not at home,--and he had such a settled, business-like look,
though he was not at all old. I could not fancy him ever taking any
pleasure or amusement, or being like other people--of course, I mean,"
she added explanatorily, "any of the pleasures of his class."
"O, I suppose not," said Frere; "a regular grub, who will be what he
will be content to call rich when he's gray and gouty. But they have
one consolation, Miss Guyon: as their business and their pleasure
alike consist in money-getting, the one is not purchased at the
expense of the other."
"Like ours," she said with a laugh, "when we have any business." Then
she went on again, thoughtfully as before: "I should like to go all
through the City. Not for the sake of seeing the places where all the
money that I have nothing to do with is made; but because so much of
our old history was acted out there. I suppose in the City one can get
a sight of the old landmarks; and they are certainly not to be found
outside it. It is rather odd that every thing that is most dignified
connects itself in one's mind with City places, and every thing that
is most vulgar with City people. If one could only see it after all
the money-grubbers are gone away, and when it is still and quiet in
the evenings, as they say it is----"
"And when, accordingly, the most ingenious and charmingly-sensational
robberies are perpetrated," said Gordon Frere, laughing. "Well, that
is a wish easily gratified. Who was the man who always said, when any
place was mentioned, 'Let's make a party and go'? No matter, we will
echo him. I know a man who knows lots of City men, who would be
delighted to show you every thing worth seeing; and then there are
books, you know, which tell one the history--I was going to say the
pedigree--of every place. But I suppose Mr. Guyon has City
acquaintances also?"
Gordon Frere asked the question inadvertently, and felt rather guilty
when he had done so; for he had heard certain rumours which left him
in no doubt at all as to the nature of Mr. Guyon's acquaintance with
the far east.
"I daresay he has," replied Katharine carelessly; "but I don't know
any thing of them. My business was only with a tradesman, a person
named Streightley, and I have never heard papa mention his business
friends."
And then the conversation drifted to other topics, and Gordon Frere
shortly after took his leave. This morning visit had been unlike the
ordinary events of his days, and he felt towards Katharine Guyon as he
left her as he had never felt before. And Katharine? She had reseated
herself at the piano as he left the room, and her fingers had strayed
for a few momenta over the keys; then her hands fell idly into her
lap, and, in the sunshine of the summer day, unbroken by the stir and
noise in the street, there came upon the fair young girl that
wonderful waking trance whose vision is "love's young dream."
The trance was broken by the entrance of her father. Mr. Guyon's
manner, always light and airy, was on this occasion lighter and airier
than usual. He walked up to the piano, bent over his daughter, and
giving her a paternal kiss, said, "Who was your visitor, Kate?"
Not without a repetition of the blush, Katharine said, "Mr. Frere,
papa."
"Mr. Frere!" repeated Mr. Guyon,--"ay, ay, a good fellow, Gordon
Frere,--a good fellow! Wants ballast perhaps!" added he reflectively,
as though he himself were provided with more than an average amount of
that commodity,--"wants ballast; but that will come. By the way, Kate,
I've had your City friend of yesterday with me,--Mr. Streightley."
"Indeed, papa!" said Katharine carelessly. It was a great descent from
Gordon Frere to the City man, Mr. Streightley. She rose from the piano
as she spoke, and crossed to the mantel-shelf, on which she leaned her
arm.
"Indeed, papa! Yes, and indeed, papa, and no mistake. It's a most
remarkable thing, and I can't make it out. You don't understand
business matters in detail, but you'll be able to follow me when I
tell you that this Streightley, who has the name of being a deuced
sharp man of business, has behaved to me in a deuced liberal and
gentlemanly way--a deuced liberal and gentlemanly way! And what on
earth can have been his motive--for of course he had a motive--what on
earth can have induced him to show me any special favour, I can't
divine."
"Can't you, papa?" said Miss Guyon. She was looking at herself in the
glass, pushing back the hair from off her temples. A slight smile
curved her lip, and she looked splendidly handsome. Mr. Guyon,
glancing at her, caught the expression reflected in the glass and
sprang to his feet.
"By George, Kate, I've hit it! the man's in love with you!"
"Is he?" said Katharine simply. "I noticed him in the Park yesterday
afternoon, and standing outside the Opera last night."
"You're an angel!" said Mr. Guyon, again performing the paternal
salute. "What are you going to do to-morrow?"
"I thought of going to the Botanical Gardens in the afternoon--it's
the last _fête_ of the season."
"You shall go! I'll take you myself! You--you have not asked young
Frere to call again, have you?"
"No, papa. I----"
"Of course. I only wanted to know. Don't, until I tell you. And now I
must be off. God bless you, my child!"
But though Mr. Guyon took farewell of his daughter he was not "off"
yet; for he spent half an hour in his dressing-room, his head resting
on his hand, and his busy mind full of thought.