"What a delightful chatelaine you are!" he murmured, looking down at her as she rested her little gloved hand with scarce a touch on his arm--"And how proud and glad I am to be once more beside you! Ah, Maryllia, you are very cruel to me! If you would only realise how happy we could be--always together!"
She made no answer. Arriving in the dining-room, she withdrew her hand from his arm, and seated herself at the head of her table. He then found that he was on her right hand, while Lord Charlemont was on her left. Next to Lord Charlemont sat Lady Beaulyon,--and next to Lady Beaulyon John Walden was placed with the partner allotted to him, Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay. On Roxmouth's own side there were Lady Wicketts and Sir Morton Pippitt,--so it chanced that the table was arranged in a manner that brought certain parties who were by no means likely to agree on any one given point, directly opposite to each other. Cicely, peeping out from a little ante-room, where she had entreated to be allowed to stand and watch the proceedings, made a running commentary on this in her own particular fashion. Cicely was looking very picturesque, in a new white frock which Maryllia had given her,--with a broad crimson sash knotted carelessly round her waist and a ribbon of the same colour in her luxuriant black hair. She was to sing after dinner--Gigue had told her she was to 'astonish ze fools'--and she was ready to do it. Her dark eyes shone like stars, and her lips were cherry-red with excitement,--so much so that Mrs. Spruce, thinking she was feverish, had given her a glass of 'cooling cordial'--made of fruit and ice and lemon water, which she was enjoying at intervals while criticising the fine folks in the dining-room.
"Well done, Maryllia!" she murmured, as she saw her friend enter on Roxmouth's arm--"Cold as a ray of the moon, but doing her social duty to the bitter end! What a tom-cat Roxmouth is!--a sleek pussy, sure to snarl if his fur is rubbed up the wrong way--but he is just the type that some women would like to marry--he looks so well-bred. Poor Mr. Walden!--he's got to talk to the Everlasting-Youth lady,-- and old Sir Morton Pippitt is immediately opposite to him!--now that's too bad of Maryllia!--it really is! She knows how the bone- boiler longs to boil Mr. Walden's bones, and that Mr. Walden wishes Sir Morton Pippitt were miles away from him! They shouldn't have faced each other. But how very, very superior to all the lot Mr. Walden looks!--he really IS handsome!--he has such an intellectual head. There's Gigue chattering away to poor old Miss Fosby!--oh dear! Miss Fosby will never understand him! What a motley crew! And I shall have to sing to them all after they've dined! Saint Moses! It will be a sort of 'first appearance in England.' A good test, too, because all the English eat nearly to bursting before they go to the opera. No wonder they never can grasp what the music is about, or who's who! It's all salmon and chicken and lobster and champagne with them--not Beethoven or Wagner or Rossini. Good old Gigue! His spirits are irrepressible! How he is laughing! Mr. Walden looks very serious--almost tragic--I wonder what he is thinking about! I wish I could hear what they are all saying--but it's nothing but buzz, buzz!"