Part 62 (1/2)

”I am not. You are a good child, and Marcia wronged you. Go now, and forget all I may have said. I am weak at times, and--and---- Go, child; I am better alone.”

In the corridor outside stands Mr. Potts, with pale cheeks and very pale eyes. Even his hair seems to have lost a shade, and looks subdued.

”Well, what did he say to you?” he asks, in what he fondly imagines to be a whisper, but which would be distinctly audible in the hall beneath. ”Was he awfully mad? Did he cut up very rough? I wouldn't have been in your shoes for a million. Did he--did he--say anything about--_me_?”

”I don't believe he remembered your existence,” says Molly, with a laugh, although her eyelids are still of a shade too decided to be becoming. ”He knew nothing of your share in the transaction.”

Whereupon Mr. Potts declares himself thankful for so much mercy in a devout manner, and betakes himself to the smoking-room.

Here he is received with much applause and more congratulations.

”Another of Mr. Potts's charming entertainments,” says Sir Penthony, with a wave of the hand. ”Extraordinary and enthusiastic reception!

Such success has seldom before been witnessed! Last time he blew up two young women; to-night he has slain an offensive old gentleman! Really, Potts, you must allow me to shake hands with you.”

”Was there ever anything more unfortunate?” says Potts, in a lachrymose tone. He has not been inattentive to the requirements of the inner man since his entrance, and already, slowly but surely, the brandy is doing its work. ”It was all so well arranged, and I made sure the old boy was gone to bed.”

”He is upset,” murmurs Sir Penthony, with touching concern, ”and no wonder. Such tremendous exertion requires the aid of stimulants to keep it up. My dear Potts, do have a little more brandy-and-soda. You don't take half care of yourself.”

”Not a drop,--not a drop,” says Mr. Potts, drawing the decanter toward him. ”It don't agree with me. Oh, Stafford! you should have seen Miss Ma.s.sereene in her Greek costume. I think she is the loveliest creature I ever saw. She _is_,” goes on Mr. Potts, with unwise zeal, ”by _far_ the loveliest, 'and the same I would rise to maintain.'”

”I wouldn't, if I were you,” says Philip, who is indignant. ”There is no knowing what tricks your legs may play with you.”

”She was just like Venus, or--or some of those other G.o.ddesses,” says Mr. Potts, vaguely.

”I can well believe it,” returns Stafford; ”but don't let emotion master you. 'There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.' Try a little of the former.”

”There's nothing in life I wouldn't do for that girl,--nothing, I declare to you, Stafford,” goes on Potts, who is quite in tears by this time; ”but she wouldn't look at me.”

Luttrell and Philip are enraged; Stafford and the others are in roars.

”Wouldn't she, Potts?” says Stafford, with a fine show of sympathy.

”Who knows? Cheer up, old boy, and remember women never know their own minds at first. She may yet become alive to your many perfections, and know her heart to be all yours. Think of that. And why should she not?”

says Sir Penthony, with free encouragement. ”Where could she get a better fellow? 'Faint heart,' you know, Potts. Take my advice and pluck up spirit, and go in for her boldly. Throw yourself at her feet.”

”I will,” says Mr. Potts, ardently.

”To-morrow,” advises Sir Penthony, with growing excitement.

”Now,” declares Potts, with wild enthusiasm, making a rush for the door.

”Not to-night; wait until to-morrow,” Sir Penthony says, who has not antic.i.p.ated so ready an acceptance of his advice, getting between him and the door. ”In my opinion she has retired to her room by this; and it really would be rather sketchy, you know,--eh?”

”What do you say, Luttrell?” asks Potts, uncertainly. ”What would you advise?”

”Bed,” returns Luttrell, curtly, turning on his heel.

And finally the gallant Potts is conveyed to his room, without being allowed to lay his hand and fortune at Miss Ma.s.sereene's feet.

About four o'clock the next day,--being that of the ball,--Sir Penthony, strolling along the west corridor, comes to a standstill before Cecil's door, which happens to lie wide open.