Part 29 (2/2)

They saw a great deal of each other because Lawrence was a great friend of both her father's and mother's, and their doors were always open to him. So, while living at his club in Calcutta, he spent a part of each day with the Carews, either lounging in the morning-room in the morning, or dining with them in the evening, or accompanying them to some of the endless social festivities they attended.

People soon began to talk, and generally designated him the Earl's chief rival, but neither Gwendoline nor Lawrence paid any attention, only amusing themselves with the Earl's discomfiture. Mrs Carew was rather set upon the coronet, however, and endeavoured to enlist Lawrence upon her side. The topic was brought up in the drawing-room one afternoon about a month after he arrived, and just in the middle of it Gwen herself burst into the room.

”He is an extremely nice man, and it is such an excellent position,” her mother was saying, and then, she stopped short to find her daughter standing before her with laughter in her splendid dark eyes.

”So mamma is making a countess of me off-hand, is she?” she asked, turning to Lawrence, who was looking on with an amused smile from the depths of a big easy-chair.

”We were just considering how a coronet would become you,” he replied.

”Oh! the coronet's all right,” shrugging her shoulders, ”but the man!

Heaven preserve me from marrying a woolly lamb with a spring inside, that says 'Baa-a-a' when you squeeze it.”

”I didn't think you had got so far as that,” said Lawrence wickedly.

”Don't try to be funny,” retorted Gwen; ”it doesn't suit your peculiar style of cleverness. Look here, mother,” turning to Mrs Carew again with the air of a young queen, ”don't you go setting your heart on Selloyd for a son-in-law, because I won't have him. I won't have anybody yet. I'm having a glorious time, and I mean to keep on. It's all rot wanting to tie a girl up her first season. I mean to have three seasons, and then, if no one else will have me, I'll take Lawrence,” and she flashed a bewitching glance at him.

”Lawrence won't want a wife who's been in the lists three seasons,” said her mother.

”Lawrence will do as he's told,” promptly. ”It will be a new experience, and very good for him.”

”And afterward I suppose you'll allow me the same beneficial course with you,” he remarked.

”Oh, no,” laughing. ”Women who are reigning types of English beauty never have to do as they are told. They simply reign.”

”All the same I'm afraid Lawrence would know you far too well to put his head in such a noose,” said Mrs Carew. ”If any man would let you do as you liked, Selloyd would, and they say he is fabulously rich.”

”I don't care. He can keep his old riches and his old t.i.tle: I tell you I'm having a good time, and I don't mean to change it. With half Calcutta at your feet abroad, and Lawrence at your feet at home, what could I possibly want more?”

”You will wake up one day and find Lawrence gone, and the others rapidly getting tired of stooping.”

”I don't care--and Lawrence would have to come back.”

”That wouldn't be much good if he were married.”

”Married!--Lawrence married!” and a ringing laugh sounded through the room. ”Why, he'd never have the energy to propose, much less be bothered to get fixed up. He'll just lounge about in easy-chairs all his life, smiling his cynical old smile, and rousing himself occasionally to make cutting speeches. The only way to marry Lawrence would be to propose yourself, and arrange everything, because he'd give in rather than have the bother of refusing. That's how it will probably end, and I shall take pity on him and be the victim. I shall say, 'Wake up, Lawrie, you've got to marry me,' and I shall have the licence all ready and drag him off then and there.”

”Who did you say would be the victim!” he asked.

The butler entered with a letter, and, after hastily reading it, Mrs Carew explained that she must send an answer that evening, and excusing herself to Lawrence went out, leaving the young folks alone. Gwendoline seated herself on the arm of a chair near him and commenced a running conversation.

”How did you like that photograph I sent you?” she asked presently. ”I don't believe you ever had the manners to write and thank me.”

”If I didn't it was because I knew I should be seeing you so soon.”

”Well, how did you like it? You don't seem inclined to go into raptures over it, as you ought.”

”All the same, I thought it excellent.”

”What did you do with yourself in that deadly little Irish hamlet?

Wasn't it perfectly awful? Why didn't you come away sooner?”

”I rather enjoyed it than otherwise.”

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