Part 40 (1/2)

”Oh, my love's like a melody That's sweetly played in tune,”

reads Archie, and then stops.

”It is pretty,” he says, agreeably; ”but if you had heard the last word persistently called 'chune,' I think it would have taken the edge off your fancy for it. I had an uncle who adored that little poem, but he _would_ call the word 'chune,' and it rather spoiled the effect. He's dead,” says Mr. Chesney, laying down his book, ”but I think I see him now.”

”In the pride of youth and beauty, With a garland on his brow,”

quotes Lilian, mischievously.

”Well, not quite. Rather in an exceedingly rusty suit of evening clothes at the Opera. I took him there in a weak moment to hear the 'late lamented t.i.tiens' sing her choicest song in 'Il Trovatore,'--you know it?--well, when it was over and the whole house was in a perfect uproar of applause, I turned and asked him what he thought of it, and he instantly said he thought it was 'a very pretty ”chune”!' Fancy t.i.tiens singing a 'chune'! I gave him up after that, and carefully avoided his society. Poor old chap, he didn't bear malice, however, as he died a year later and left me all his money.”

”More than you deserved,” says Lilian.

Here Cyril and Taffy appearing on the scene cause a diversion. They both simultaneously fling themselves upon the gra.s.s at Lilian's feet, and declare themselves completely used up.

”Let us have tea out here,” says Lilian, gayly, ”and enjoy our summer to the end.” Springing to her feet, she turns toward the balcony, careless of the fact that she has destroyed the lovely picture she made sitting on the greensward, surrounded by her attendant swains.

”Florence, come down here, and let us have tea on the gra.s.s,” she calls out pleasantly to Miss Beauchamp.

”Do, Florence,” says Archibald, entreatingly.

”Miss Beauchamp, you really _must_,” from Taffy, decides the point.

Florence, feeling it will look ungracious to refuse, rises with reluctance, and sails down upon the _quartette_ below, followed by Sir Guy.

”What an awful time we shall be having at Mrs. Boileau's this hour to-morrow night,” says Cyril, plaintively, after a long silence on his part. ”I shudder when I think of it. No one who has never spent an evening at the Grange can imagine the agony of it.”

”I vow I would rather be broken on the wheel than undergo it,” says Archibald. ”It was downright mean of Lady Chetwoode to let us all in for it. And yet no doubt things might have been worse; we ought to feel devoutly thankful old Boileau is well under the sod.”

”What was the matter with him?” asks Lilian.

”Don't name him,” says Cyril, ”he was past all human endurance; my blood runs cold when I remember, I once did know him. I rejoice to say he is no more. His name was Benjamin: and as he was small and thin, and she was large and fat, she (that is, Mrs. Boileau) was always called 'Benjamin's portion.' That's a joke; do you see it?”

”I do: so you don't take any bobs off _my_ wages,” retorts Miss Chesney, promptly, with a distinct imitation of Kate Stantley. ”And yet I cannot see how all this made the poor man odious.”

”No, not exactly that, though I don't think a well-brought-up man should let himself go to skin and bone. He was intolerable in other ways. One memorable Christmas day Guy and I dined with him, and he got beastly drunk on the sauce for the plum-pudding. We were young at the time, and it made a lasting impression upon us. Indeed, he was hardly the person to sit next at a prolonged dinner-party, first because he was unmistakably dirty, and----”

”Oh, Cyril!”

”Well, and why not? It is not impossible. Even Popes, it now appears, can be indifferent to the advantages to be derived from soap and water.”

”Really, Cyril, I think you might choose a pleasanter subject upon which to converse,” says Florence, with a disgusted curl of her short upper lip.

”I beg pardon all round, I'm sure,” returns Cyril, meekly. ”But Lilian should be blamed: she _would_ investigate the matter; and I'm nothing, if not strictly truthful. He was a very dirty old man, I a.s.sure you, my dear Florence.”

”Mrs. Boileau, however objectionable, seems to have been rather the best of the two: why did she marry him?” asks Lilian.

”Haven't the remotest idea, and, even if I had, I should be afraid to answer any more of your pertinent questions,” with an expressive nod in the direction of Florence. ”I can only say it was a very feeble proceeding on the part of such a capable person as Mrs. Boileau.”