Five P. M. but never a sign of Arminius Wingrove. But even the heir to the barony, with that sinking sensation behind his waistcoat, as he ordered tea and muffins for three persons, was man of the world enough to be aware that Arminius mightn't appear very much before the hour of six had tolled. He was beginning slowly to realize that individuals so humble as himself had meekly to hoard any small portions of the loaf of human amenity that were cast upon the waters.
Indeed, the odds were six to four on that Arminius would either forget this little engagement for the second time, or that he would be again commanded to the Cassel, his keen sense of hu-mor having, according to ru-mor, made an e-nor-mous impres-sion. But even if calamity again overtook the heir to the barony it was by no means clear that he was going to grieve. For a fortnight past, asleep and awake, had he dreamed of Cinderella, but the gallant sportsman was feeling rather cheap just now, as the young minx opposite, with the cool blue eye and the chin of domination—'ware 'em, you young bachelors—was engaged in giving him tea without any sugar in it.
"What!" said the young cat.
They could hear her quite three tables away.
"A Mr. Wingrove. Says he's met you. Thought you wouldn't mind meeting him again—awful brainy feller—and he's bringin' a girl he knows."
