Part 5 (1/2)

When I descended to the dining-room I found all seated, and so asked pardon of Lady Coleville, who was gay and amiable as usual, and, ”for a penance,” as she said, made me sit beside her. That was no penance, for she was a beauty and a wit, her dainty head swimming with harmless mischief; and besides knowing me as she did, she was monstrous amusing in a daring yet delicate fas.h.i.+on, which she might not use with any other save her husband.

That, as I say, was therefore no penance, but my punishment was to see Elsin Grey far across the table on Sir Peter's right, and to find in my other neighbor a lady whose sole delight in me was to alternately shock me with broad pleasantries and torment me with my innocence.

[Ill.u.s.tration: My punishment was to see Elsin Grey far across the table.]

Rosamund Barry was her name, Captain Barry's widow--he who fell at Breeds Hill in '76--the face of a Madonna, and the wicked wit of a lady whose name she bore, _sans La du_.

”Carus,” she said, leaning too near me and waving her satin painted fan, ”is it true you have deserted me for a fairer conquest?”

”The rumor nails itself to the pillory,” I said; ”who is fairer than you, Rosamund?”

”You beg the question,” she said severely, the while her dark eyes danced a devil's shadow dance; ”if you dare go tiptoeing around the skirts of the Hon. Miss Grey, I'll tell her all--_all_, mind you!”

”Don't do that,” I said, ”unless you mean to leave New York.”

”All about _you_, silly!” she said, flus.h.i.+ng in spite of her placid smile.

”Oh,” I said, with an air of great relief, ”I was sure you could not contemplate confession!”

She laid her pretty head on one side. ”I wonder,” she mused, eying me deliberately--”I wonder what this new insolence of yours might indicate. Is it rebellion? Has the worm turned?”

”The worm has turned--into a frivolous b.u.t.terfly,” I said gaily.

”I don't believe it,” she said. ”Let me see if I can make you blush, Carus!” And she leaned nearer, whispering behind her fan.

”Let me match that!” I said coolly. ”Lend me your fan, Rosamund----”

”Carus!” exclaimed Lady Coleville, ”stop it! Mercy on us, such shameless billing and cooing! Captain O'Neil, call him out!”

”Faith,” said O'Neil, ”to call is wan thing, and the chune Mrs. Barry sings is another. Take shame, Carus Renault, ye blatherin', bould inthriguer! L'ave innocence to yer betthers!”

”To me, for example,” observed Captain Harkness complacently. ”Mrs.

Barry knows that raking fellow, Carus, and she knows you, too, you wild Irishman----”

”If you only keep this up long enough, gentlemen,” I said, striving to smile, ”you'll end by doing what I've so far avoided.”

”Ruining his reputation in Miss Grey's eyes,” explained Lady Coleville pleasantly.

Elsin Grey looked calmly across at me, saying to Sir Peter, ”He _is_ too young to do such things, isn't he?”

That set them into fits of laughter, Sir Peter begging me to pause in my mad career and consider the chief end of man, and Tully O'Neil generously promising moral advice and the spiritual support of Rosamund Barry, which immediately diverted attention from me to a lightning duel of words between Rosamund and O'Neil--parry and thrust, innuendo and eloquent silence, until Lady Coleville in pantomime knocked up the crossed blades of wit, and Sir Peter vowed that this was no place for an innocent married man.

When Lady Coleville rose we drew our swords and arched a way for her, and she picked up her silken petticoat and ran under, laughing, one hand pressed to her ears to shut out the cheers.

There were long black Spanish cigars, horribly strong, served with spirits after the ladies had left. O'Neil and Harkness used them; Sir Peter and I accepted the long cool pipes, and we settled for a comfortable smoke.

Sir Peter spoke of the coming c.o.c.k-fight with characteristic optimism--not shared by Harkness, and but partially approved by O'Neil.

Details were solemnly discussed, questions of proper heeling, of silver and steel gaffs, of comb and wattle cutting, of the texture of feather and hackle, and of the ”walks” at Flatbush and Horrock's method of feeding in the dark.

Tiring of the subject, Harkness, spoke of the political outlook and took a gloomy view, paying his Excellency a compliment by referring to him as ”no fox, but a full-grown wolf, with an appet.i.te for a continent and perhaps for a hemisphere.”

”Pooh!” said Sir Peter, lazily sucking at his pipe, ”Sir Henry has him holed. We'll dig him out before snow flies.”