“She’ll come,” he said, “if it’s up to the neck. Her mother saw me go past.”
He proceeded with his toilet. I told him that Leslie had sent the carriage for Alice and Madie. He slapped his fat legs, and exclaimed:
“Miss Gall—I smell sulphur! Beardsall, old boy, there’s fun in the wind. Madie, and the coy little Tempest, and——” he hissed a line of a music-hall song through his teeth.
During all this he had straightened his cream and lavender waistcoat:
“Little pink of a girl worked it for me—a real juicy little peach—chipped somehow or other”—he had arranged his white bow—he had drawn forth two rings, one a great signet, the other gorgeous with diamonds, and had adjusted them on his fat white fingers; he had run his fingers delicately, through his hair, which rippled backwards a trifle tawdrily—being fine and somewhat sapless; he had produced a box, containing a cream carnation with suitable greenery; he had flicked himself with a silk handkerchief, and had dusted his patent-leather shoes; lastly, he had pursed up his lips and surveyed himself with great satisfaction in the mirror. Then he was ready to be presented.
“Couldn’t forget to-day, Lettie. Wouldn’t have let old Pluto and all the bunch of ’em keep me away. I skimmed here like a ‘Brra-ave’ on my snow-shoes, like Hiawatha coming to Minnehaha.”
“Ah—that was famine,” said Marie softly.
“And this is a feast, a gorgeous feast, Miss Tempest,” he said, bowing to Marie, who laughed.
“You have brought some music?” asked mother.
