Part 42 (1/2)

”Better, I should say. He is a particular friend of mine.”

”Indeed! I shouldn't have thought him your style. Like Ca.s.sius, he used to have a 'lean and hungry look.'”

”Used he? I think him quite good-looking.”

”He must have developed, then, in body as in intellect. Three years ago he was a very gaunt youth indeed.”

”Of course, Stafford,” breaks in Mr. Amherst's rasping voice, ”we can all make allowances for your joy on seeing your wife again after such a long absence. But you must not monopolize her. Remember she is the life of our party.”

”Thank you, Mr. Amherst. What a delightful compliment!” says Cecil, with considerable _empress.e.m.e.nt_. ”Sir Penthony was just telling me what an enjoyable voyage he had; and I was congratulating him. There is nothing on earth so depressing or so humiliating as sea-sickness.

Don't you agree with me?”

Mr. Amherst mutters something in which the word ”brazen” is distinctly heard; while Cecil, turning to her companion, says hastily, holding out her hand, with a soft, graceful movement:

”We are friends?”

”Forever, I trust,” he replies, taking the little plump white hand within his own, and giving it a hearty squeeze.

To some the evening is a long one,--to Luttrell and Molly, for instance, who are at daggers drawn and maintain a dignified silence toward each other.

Tedcastle, indeed, holds his head so high that if by chance his gaze should rest in Molly's direction, it must perforce pa.s.s over her without fear of descending to her face. (This is wise, because to look at Molly is to find one's self disarmed.) There is an air of settled hostility about him that angers her beyond all words.

”What does he mean by glowering like that, and looking as though he could devour somebody? How different he used to be in dear old Brooklyn! Who could have thought he would turn out such a Tartar? Well, there is no knowing any man; and yet---- It is a pity not to give him something to glower about,” thinks Miss Ma.s.sereene, in an access of rage, and forthwith deliberately sets herself out to encourage Shadwell and Mr. Potts.

She has a brilliant success, and, although secretly sore at heart, manages to pa.s.s her time agreeably, and, let us hope, profitably.

Marcia, whose hatred toward her rival grows with every glance cast at her from Philip's eyes, turns to Tedcastle and takes him in hand. Her voice is low, her manner subdued, but designing. Whatever she may be saying is hardly likely to act as cure to Teddy's heart-ache; at least so thinks Cecil, and, coming to the rescue, sends Sir Penthony across to talk to him, and drawing him from Marcia's side, leads him into a lengthened history of all those who have come and gone in the old regiment since he sold out.

The _ruse_ is successful, but leaves Cecil still indignant with Molly. ”What a wretched little flirt she is!” She turns an enraged glance upon where Miss Ma.s.sereene is sitting deep in a discussion with Mr. Potts.

”Have you any Christian name?” Molly is asking, with a beaming smile, fixing her liquid Irish eyes upon the enslaved Potts. ”I hear you addressed as Mr. Potts,--as Potts even--but never by anything that might be mistaken for a first name.”

”Yes,” replies Mr. Potts, proudly. ”I was christened Plantagenet. Good sound, hasn't it? Something to do with the Dark Ages and Pinnock, only I never remember clearly what. Our fellows have rather a low way of abbreviating it and bringing it down to 'Planty.' And--would you believe it?--on one or two occasions they have so far forgotten themselves as to call me 'the regular Plant.'”

”What a shame!” says Miss Ma.s.sereene, with deep sympathy.

”Let 'em,” says Mr. Potts, heroic, if vulgar, shaking his crimson head.

”It's fun to them, and it's by no means 'death' to me. It does no harm.

But it's a nuisance to have one's mother put to the trouble of concocting a fine name, if one doesn't get the benefit of it.”

”I agree with you. Were I a man, and rejoiced in such a name as Plantagenet, I would insist upon having every syllable of it distinctly sounded, or I'd know the reason why. 'All or nothing' should be my motto.”

”I never think of it, I don't see my wife's cards,” says Mr. Potts, who has had a good deal of champagne, and is rather moist about the eyes.

”'Mrs. Plantagenet Potts' would look well, wouldn't it?”

”Very aristocratic,” says false Molly, with an admiring nod. ”I almost think,--I am not quite sure,--but I almost think I would marry a man to bear a name like that.”

”Would you?” cries Mr. Potts, his tongue growing freer, while enthusiasm sparkles in every feature. ”If I only thought that, Miss Molly----”