LITMIR.BIZ

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listen to you,’ said Lady Dunstane.

      ‘Ah! if all England, half, a quarter, the smallest piece of the land were like you, my lady, I’d be loyal to the finger-nails. Now, is she engaged?—when I get a word with her?’

      ‘She is nineteen, or nearly, and she ought to have five good years of freedom, I think.’

      ‘And five good years of serfdom I’d serve to win her!’

      A look at him under the eyelids assured Lady Dunstane that there would be small chance for Mr. Sullivan Smith; after a life of bondage, if she knew her Diana, in spite of his tongue, his tact, his lively features, and breadth of shoulders.

      Up he sprang. Diana was on Mr. Redworth’s arm. ‘No refreshments,’ she said; and ‘this is my refreshment,’ taking the seat of Mr. Sullivan Smith, who ejaculated,

      ‘I must go and have that gentleman’s name.’ He wanted a foe.

      ‘You know you are ready to coquette with the General at any moment, Tony,’ said her friend.

      ‘Yes, with the General!’

      ‘He is a noble old man.’

      ‘Superb. And don’t say “old man.” With his uniform and his height and his grey head, he is like a glorious October day just before the brown leaves fall.’

      Diana hummed a little of the air of Planxty Kelly, the favourite of her childhood, as Lady Dunstane well remembered, they smiled together at the scenes and times it recalled.

      ‘Do you still write verses, Tony?’

      ‘I could about him. At one part of the fight he thought he would be beaten. He was overmatched in artillery, and it was a cavalry charge he thundered on them, riding across the field to give the word of command to the couple of regiments, riddled to threads, that gained the day. That is life—when we dare death to live! I wonder at men, who are men, being anything but soldiers! I told you, madre, my own Emmy, I forgave you for marrying, because it was a soldier.’

      ‘Perhaps a soldier is to be the happy man. But you have not told me a word of yourself. What has been done with the old Crossways?’

      ‘The house, you know, is mine. And it’s all I have: ten acres and the house, furnished, and let for less than two hundred a year. Oh! how I long to evict the tenants! They can’t have my feeling for the place where I was born. They’re people of tolerably good connections, middling wealthy, I suppose, of the name of Warwick, and, as far as I can understand, they stick there to be near the Sussex Downs, for a nephew, who likes to ride on them. I’ve a half engagement, barely legible, to visit them on an indefinite day, and can’t bear the idea of strangers masters in the old house. I must be driven there for shelter, for a roof, some month. And I could make a pilgrimage in rain or snow just to doat on the outside of it. That’s your Tony.’

      ‘She’s my darling.’

      ‘I hear myself speak! But your voice or mine, madre, it’s one soul. Be sure I am giving up the ghost when I cease to be one soul with you, dear and dearest! No secrets, never a shadow of a deception, or else I shall feel I am not fit to live. Was I a bad correspondent when you were in India?’

      ‘Pretty well. Copious letters when you did write.’

      ‘I was shy. I knew I should be writing, to Emmy and another, and only when I came to the flow could I forget him. He is very finely built; and I dare say he has a head. I read of his deeds in India and quivered. But he was just a bit in the way. Men are the barriers to perfect naturalness, at least, with girls, I think. You wrote to me in the same tone as ever, and at first I had a struggle to reply. And I, who have such pride in being always myself!’

      Two staring semi-circles had formed, one to front the Hero; the other the Beauty. These half moons imperceptibly dissolved to replenish, and became a fixed obstruction.

      ‘Yes, they look,’ Diana made answer to Lady Dunstane’s comment on the curious impertinence. She was getting used to it, and her friend had a gratification in seeing how little this affected her perfect naturalness.

      ‘You are often in the world—dinners, dances?’ she said.

      ‘People are kind.’

      ‘Any proposals?’

      ‘Nibbles.’

      ‘Quite heart-free?’

      ‘Absolutely.’

      Diana’s unshadowed bright face defied all menace of an eclipse.

      The block of sturdy gazers began to melt. The General had dispersed his group of satellites by a movement with the Mayoress on his arm, construed as the signal for procession to the supper-table.

      CHAPTER III. THE INTERIOR OF MR. REDWORTH, AND THE EXTERIOR OF MR. SULLIVAN SMITH

      ‘It may be as well to take Mr. Redworth’s arm; you will escape the crush for you,’ said Lady Dunstane to Diana. ‘I don’t sup. Yes! go! You must eat, and he is handiest to conduct you.’

      Diana thought of her chaperon and the lateness of the hour. She murmured, to soften her conscience, ‘Poor Mrs. Pettigrew!’

      And once more Mr. Redworth, outwardly imperturbable, was in the maelstrom of a happiness resembling tempest. He talked, and knew not what he uttered. To give this matchless girl the best to eat and drink was his business, and he performed it. Oddly, for a man who had no loaded design, marshalling the troops in his active and capacious cranium, he fell upon calculations of his income, present and prospective, while she sat at the table and he stood behind her. Others were wrangling for places, chairs, plates, glasses, game-pie, champagne: she had them; the lady under his charge to a certainty would have them; so far good; and he had seven hundred pounds per annum—seven hundred and fifty, in a favourable aspect, at a stretch....

      ‘Yes, the pleasantest thing to me after working all day is an opera of Carini’s,’ she said, in full accord with her taste, ‘and Tellio for tenor, certainly.’—A fair enough sum for a bachelor: four hundred personal income, and a prospect of higher dividends to increase it; three hundred odd from his office, and no immediate prospects of an increase there; no one died there, no elderly martyr for the advancement of his juniors could be persuaded to die; they were too tough to think of retiring. Say, seven hundred and fifty.... eight hundred, if the commerce of the country fortified the Bank his property was embarked in; or eight-fifty or nine ten....

      ‘I could call him my poet also,’ Mr. Redworth agreed with her taste in poets. ‘His letters are among the best ever written—or ever published: the raciest English I know. Frank, straight out: capital descriptions. The best English letter-writers are as good as the French—

      You don’t think so?—in their way, of course. I dare’ say we don’t sufficiently cultivate the art. We require the supple tongue a closer intercourse of society gives.’—Eight or ten hundred. Comfortable enough for a man in chambers. To dream of entering as a householder on that sum, in these days, would be stark nonsense: and a man two removes from a baronetcy has no right to set his reckoning on deaths:—if he does, he becomes a sort of meditative assassin. But what were the Fates about when they planted a man of the ability of Tom Redworth in a Government office! Clearly they intended him to remain a bachelor for life. And they sent him over to Ireland on inspection duty for a month to have sight of an Irish Beauty....

      ‘Think war the finest subject for poets?’ he exclaimed. ‘Flatly no: I don’t think it. I think exactly the reverse. It brings out the noblest traits in human character? I won’t own that even. It brings out some but under excitement, when you have not always the real man.—Pray don’t sneer at domestic life. Well, there was a suspicion of disdain.—Yes, I can respect the hero, military or civil; with this distinction, that the military hero aims at personal reward—’

      ‘He braves wounds and death,’ interposed Diana.

      ‘Whereas the civilian hero—’

      ‘Pardon me, let me deny that the soldier-hero aims at a personal reward,’ she again interposed.

      ‘He gets it.’

      ‘If

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