would in all probability prove as nothing to the evening.
As he went up to his room to dress, he decided that he would take no wine at dinner.
2
As Beresford entered the dining-room that evening, Mr. Byles was hovering about, obviously waiting for Lola to make her appearance, he decided. To his surprise, however, the major-domo approached him smiling and rubbing his hands.
"I've taken the liberty of using your table this evening, sir, as you are dining with Miss Craven," he said in the mellow, unctuous tone that he had adopted to Beresford since their little passage at arms over Mr. Montagu Gordon, whose Scottish name found so startling a contradiction in his nose.
Thrilled at the prospect of a tête-à-tête with Lola, Beresford nodded his acquiescence and, with an indifference he was far from feeling, walked over to her table and took the seat opposite that she usually occupied. He was conscious that every eye in the room was upon him, particularly the feminine eyes. Why hadn't she fold him that he was to dine with her this evening? Possibly it was a sudden whim. He was elated at the prospect. His previous qualms vanished. Nothing mattered now. There was just this delirious happiness, and then—the deluge. What of it? It was wonderful to be alive!
