“George Newton, if you stop another moment in this room, I’ll postpone the dinner to nine o’clock!”
*****
Punctually at half-past seven, Westby rendered himself at the club, but it was past eight before Newton made his appearance.
“Pitch into me well for keeping you waiting, Charles.”
“I’ll do that to the dinner!” grumbled Westby. “But how on earth is it you lazy men are never exact?”
“Lazy, indeed! I’ve been half over London since I saw you.”
“What for?”
“To get a copy of that engraving.”
“Bless my soul! I wish I’d given you mine, I should have gained half an hour by the gift.”
“They were all sold out”
“George Newton, take notice I’ve had no luncheon, and help the soup.”
“I saw a girl the very image of that engraving yesterday.”
“Did you? Impulsive youth! How good this sherry is!”
“Somehow I can’t get that face out of my head, Westby.”
“The subject is beginning to be a bore, George. Their tartare sauce is always capital here.”
“You’ll promise to give me that engraving, old boy?”
“Bless the man! I thought I’d promised it five minutes ago—what’s her name?”
“I could not find out, but I know something of the people she was with.”
“After all, what’s in a name? Here, I’ll devote a bumper of this pleasant Moselle to the happiness of George Newton and the fair unknown!”
*****
“What shall we do, Westby? It’s too late for ‘half-price!’ Will you have a quiet cigar in the smoking-room? I know you have given up billiards.”
“Let’s drift down the Strand to my chambers, and have a rude pipe and some self-made coffee.”
*****
Westby lighted his lamp, and addressed himself to the coffee-pot. Newton eagerly took down the engraving from the dark corner of the room in which it had hung, and cleaned the glass with some blotting-paper.
“Tell us what she’s like,” said Westby, very busy at reviving the fire. “Large dark eyes, and chesnut hair, and that sort of thing?”
“Just the contrary, light hair and complexion, blue eyes.”
“And the features?”
“Hang it! I’m so bad at description—I should call it one of your tantalising faces.”
Westby started up, and gazed earnestly on the engraving, holding it to the full light of the lamp.
“What’s her name?”
“I told you I could not find out.”
“Not, not?” muttered Westby, and he suddenly held his voice.
“Who were you going to say?”
“You can’t have that engraving, Newton; I did not recollect at the time which you had asked for.”
“Why, I should prize it so much; I’ll give you any large engraving you would like to have.”
“I don’t want engravings!”
“But, I say, old fellow, you did promise it me.”
“There, then, take it! take it!” replied Westby, ramming a great wedge of tobacco into his pipe.
George Newton was very fluent—he was always very fluent after goodly “’34”—nor did he speak as he was wont of horses and dogs, but with great confidence of his plans of life; in fact, he did all the talking, while Westby hid his face in big clouds of smoke.
“By Jove, Westby! I’m sick of this bachelor-sort of life; and, by Jove! I’ve been wanting a nice girl to look after that big house of mine—I get done right and left. I fancy I could make a woman comfortable. I should not mind a couple of months or so of London during the season. Confound it! my tin is worth any woman’s while.”
And, ringing changes on these ideas, Newton rattled away, till he ended the chime by inquiring,—
“Why, on earth, Westby had not married all this time?”
“Because I can’t!” growled Westby, behind his cloud. “It’s past two, Newton, and I must turn you out.”
Newton carefully placed the portrait under his great-coat.
“Thank you again, old boy!”
But Westby made no reply beyond a grasp of the hand; and standing on the landing he lighted Newton to the door. Bang went the door, and Westby returned to his room with a shiver that caused him to stir the fire violently.
“Confound the fellow!” he muttered, “that engraving is the very image of Lilian. Fool and ass! it’s been hanging here all this time, and I never chanced to look at it! Ten to one, but Lilian is the girl he’s been struck with; blockhead as he is, with his money he’s like enough to marry her.”
And Westby filled his pipe again, and puffed more smoke clouds, and the romantic idea surged up from the depths of his heart, and moved to and fro with old teeth-grinding at destiny. Nevertheless, next morning by eight o’clock, Westby was hard and fast, with undivided mind, on that knotty conveyancing matter which strewed his table with dusty parchments.
CHAPTER IV. “AS MAD AS A MARCH HARE.”
“One second, Salisbury!” said Charles Westby, in his proper turn at the pigeon-hole, Waterloo station.
It was a quarter to eight on a dismally cold, damp, foggy, early March morning.
The passengers in Westby’s carriage consisted of a good-natured burly person of the agricultural cattle-dealing type, armed against the raw morning with a “pocket-pistol,” a surly person of the type