"A ticket for soup, by all that's powerful!" cried Spragge. "Well, I thought it was about time for the commissioner to do the civil. Two distinguished officers like us are not to be treated with neglect even by a bloated civilian. It's directed to you, Arty, "he continued, throwing the note across the table, "and from the lovely creature herself. You'd better keep it next your heart, only open it first, my boy, and let's know what's up. Say, oh, say!"
Had Spragge been more observant he would have noticed the blush and confusion of his companion. It was the first letter he had ever received from Miss Cunningham; the first time, indeed, that he had ever seen her handwriting.
He disguised his emotion, however, and rebuked his companion. "I wish you would have a little sense for once in your life, Spragge, "he said pettishly, calling that young officer by his surname, "and keep your foolish jokes for fit subjects."
"Oh! that's the line, is it?" replied the imperturbable Jerry; "some things are not to be talked about, or else we cut up rough, do we? with our Spragges and our Yorkes? We shall be having coffee and pistols next, I suppose? All right, old fellow; you've only got to give me the office, you know, and I'm mum. Still you haven't told us yet what the letter is about; come, out with it! ticket for soup? or a hop?"
Yorke replied that it was an invitation to dinner for the next day but one.
"And me left out," cried Jerry; "well, that is a shame, considering we both called on the same day. You have been making play since to any extent, of course; still there's a want of consideration about the thing; if we had both been asked the same night, we might have taken Nubbee Buksh's buggy between us."
"Consideration!" said Yorke, loftily. "As if Miss Cunningham would be likely to think about such details as the small economies of a subaltern's ménage."
"Ménage, eh? small economies, eh? We are coming it strong, and no mistake. What's the last book we got this out of? This comes of our Shakespeares and our Homers. Beg pardon, old fellow," he added, apologetically, seeing that Yorke was looking angrily towards him; "but don't you think you'd better answer the note, and not keep the sowar waiting? I'll take myself off and have a pipe in the stable, and then perhaps when I come back Richard will be himself again."
How the young man, left alone, discovered that there was no paper or ink in the bungalow fit to write his reply upon, and sent down to the Europe shop for a packet of the best creamlaid, and a bottle of fresh ink, the orderly waiting the while, dismounted, holding his horse under the shade of a tree; how, when the paper and ink arrived, he spoilt half-a-dozen sheets before his answer was ready, in doubt whether to say "My dear Miss Cunningham," or only "Dear Miss Cunningham," — need not be told; nor that he did as a fact deposit the note about his person, taking it out a dozen times in the day to read the contents. Yet they were not of much import, for the note merely ran thus: —
"Dear Mr. Yorke, — Will you give us the pleasure of your company to dinner on Thursday at half-past seven? — Believe me, yours very truly,
Needs not be said that Yorke engaged Nubbee Buksh's buggy for the Thursday evening, nor that, although until now he had never thought much about dress, he made as elaborate a toilet for the occasion as the conditions of undress uniform permitted; but not the less did he feel shy and nervous as he entered the large drawing-room at the residency, although his heart bounded within him at the cordial greeting of the hostess, as she advanced from the group of guests to meet him, and held out her hand with a smile and look of pleasure which sent the young fellow into raptures. There were only twelve persons in all, including the brigadier and Mrs. Polwheedle, and the dinner was served at a round table, permitting of general conversation, and to Yorke a full view of Miss Cunningham, in a perfectly enchanting demi-toilet. Certainly, he thought, it is even more becoming than the ball-dress, or the more costly apparel worn at his Excellency's party. It is the same picture, of course, that sets off any framing — the lovely face, the graceful figure, and the noble folds of rich brown hair.
The conversation turned to the subject then occupying all the dinner-tables in India, the misconduct of a guard of sepoys at Barrackpore.
"For my part,"said Mrs. Polwheedle, "I think the whole regiment ought to have been hanged, the rascally fellows!
