Part 76 (1/2)

”She is awfully lovely,” says Mr. Bellair, evidently continuing a conversation, and saying it with an audible sigh; ”quite too lovely for me.”

”You seem fetched,” says his friend, directing a pale but feeling ray upon him through the beloved gla.s.s.

”I am, I confess it,” says Mr. Bellair, effusively; ”I adore her, and that's a fact: but she would not look at me. She's in love with her cousin,--Chesney, you know,--and they're to be married straight off the reel, next month, I think--or that.”

”Hah!” says the friend. ”She's good to look at, do you know, and rather uncommon style, in spite of her yellow hair. She's a ward of Chetwoode's, isn't she? Always heard he was awfully _epris_ there.”

By this time Lilian is crimson, and Archibald hardly less so, though he is distinctly conscious of a desire to laugh; Lilian's eyes are riveted on Sir Guy, who has grown very pale and has turned a frowning brow upon these luckless young men.

”Not a bit of it,” says Mr. Bellair, ”at least now. He was, I believe, but she bowled him over in a couple of months and laughed at him afterward. No, Chesney is the white-headed boy with her. Not that I see much in him myself,” discontentedly.

”Sour-looking beggar,” rejoins the friend, with kind sympathy.

It is growing tremendously jolly for the listeners. Lilian turns a pained, beseeching glance upon Archibald, who returns the glance, but declares by gesture his inability to do anything. He is still secretly amused, and not being able from his point of vantage to see Chetwoode, is scarcely as confused as Lilian. Should he now stir, and walk out of his place of concealment with Miss Chesney, he would only cover with shame the unsuspecting gossips and make two enemies for life, without doing any good.

Chetwoode is in the same condition, but though angry and bitterly stung by their words, hardly cares to resent them, being utterly unaware of Lilian's eyes, which are bent upon him. He waits impatiently for the moment when Mr. Bellair and his ”fat friend” may choose to move on. Did he know who was so close to him, watching every expression of his face, impatience might have pa.s.sed all bounds. As it is, a few chance remarks matter little to him.

But Mr. Bellair's friend has yet something else to say.

”Fine girl, Miss Beauchamp,” says this youth, languidly; ”immensely good form, and that. Looks like a G.o.ddess.”

”There's a lot of her, if you mean that. But she's too nosy,” says Mr.

Bellair, grumpily, a sense of injury full upon him. His own nose is of the charming curt and simple order: his ”friends in council” (who might be more select) are wont to call it playfully a ”spud.” ”Far too nosy! I hate a woman all nose! makes her look so like a mope.”

”You've been getting a snubbing there,” says his friend, this time unfeelingly and with an inhuman chuckle.

”I have,” valiantly: ”she has too much of the G.o.ddess about her for my fancy: choke-full of dignity and airs, you know, and all that sort of rubbish. It don't go down, I take it, in the long run. It's as much as she can do to say 'how d'ye do' to you, and she looks a fellow up and down half a dozen times before she gives him a waltz. You don't catch me inviting her to the 'mazy dance' again in a hurry. I hate affectation. I wouldn't marry that girl for untold gold.”

”She wouldn't have you,” says his friend, with a repet.i.tion of the unpleasant chuckle.

”Maybe she wouldn't,” replies Mr. Bellair, rather hurt. ”Anyhow, she is not to be named in the same day with Miss Chesney. I suppose you know she is engaged to Chetwoode, so you needn't get spoony on her,”

viciously; ”it is quite an old affair, begun in the cradle, I believe, and kept up ever since: never can understand that sort of thing myself; would quite as soon marry my sister. But all men aren't alike.”

”No, they aren't,” says the friend, with conviction. ”Why don't he marry her, though? He must be tired of looking at her.”

”He funks it, that's what it is,” says Mr. Bellair, ”and no wonder; after seeing Miss Chesney he must feel rather discontented with his choice. Ah!”--with a sigh warranted to blow out the largest wax candle,--”there's a girl for you if you like!”

”Don't weep over it, old boy, at least here; you'll be seen,” says his friend, jovially, with odious want of sympathy; after which they are pleased to remove themselves and their opinions to another part of the room.

When they have gone, Lilian, who has been turning white and red at intervals all through the discussion, remains motionless, her eyes still fixed on Chetwoode. She does not heed Archibald's remark, so earnestly is she regarding her guardian. Can it be true what they have just said, that he, Sir Guy, has been for years engaged to Florence? At certain moments such a thought has crossed her own mind, but never until to-night has she heard it spoken of.

Chetwoode, who has moved, comes a little nearer to where she is standing, and pauses there, compelled to it by a pressure in the crowd.

”With what taste do they accredit me!” he says, half aloud, with a rather pale smile and a slight curl of his short upper lip, discernible even beneath his drooping moustache. His eyes are directed toward Florence, who is standing, carrying on a lifeless flirtation at a little distance from him; there is distaste in every line of his face, and Lilian, marking it, draws a long breath, and lets the smile return to her mobile lips.

”Was Chetwoode there all the time?” asks Archibald, aghast.

”Yes: was it not horrible?” replies she, half laughing. ”Poor Mr.

Bellair! I had no idea I had done so much mischief.”