invite us to your swell place—say the Hall at Eberwich—and we will come—‘with all our numerous array.’ ”
She sat among her cushions smiling upon him. She was half ironical, half sincere. He smiled back at her, his dark eyes full of trembling hope, and pleasure, and pride.
“How is Meg?” she asked. “Is she as charming as ever—or have you spoiled her?”
“Oh, she is as charming as ever,” he replied. “And we are tremendously fond of one another.”
“That is right!—I do think men are delightful,” she added, smiling.
“I am glad you think so,” he laughed.
They talked on brightly about a thousand things. She touched on Paris, and pictures, and new music, with her quick chatter, sounding to George wonderful in her culture and facility. And at last he said he must go.
“Not until you have eaten a biscuit, and drunk good luck with me,” she cried, catching her dress about her like a dim flame and running out of the room. We all drank to the New Year in the cold champagne.
“To the Vita Nuova!” said Lettie, and we drank smiling:
“Hark!” said George, “the hooters.”
We stood still and listened. There was a faint booing noise far away outside. It was midnight. Lettie caught up a wrap and we went to the door. The wood, the ice, the grey dim hills lay frozen in the light of the moon. But outside the valley, far away in Derbyshire, away towards Nottingham, on
