Chapter 1

THE PASSIONATE ELOPEMENT

THE PASSIONATE
ELOPEMENT

_By COMPTON MACKENZIE_

* * * * *

NEW YORK

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

1916

BALLANTINE AND CO. LTD., TAVISTOCK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON

_TO FAITH_

_Contents_

I. THE TOILET 1

II. THE PUMP ROOM 10

III. THE BLUE BOAR 20

IV. CURTAIN MAZE 34

V. THE PUBLICK BREAKFAST 47

_The Order of the Exquisite Mob_ 49

THE PUBLICK BREAKFAST [_resumea_ 50

VI. BAVERSTOCK BARN 61

VII. SUNDAY MORNING 75

VIII. THE GREAT REBELLION 82

IX. THE ASSEMBLY 86

X. AFTER THE ASSEMBLY 104

XI. NOX ALBA 109

XII. WET DAYS 114

XIII. MONARCHY IN ACTION 118

XIV. MONARCHY IN REPOSE 127

XV. PHOEBUS ADEST 135

XVI. THE CHINESE MASQUERADE 146

XVII. THE GRAND MINUET OF CATHAY 157

XVIII. THE CONFIDANTE 165

XIX. BLACKHART FARM WITH A COCK-FIGHT 171

XX. IN WHICH EVERYTHING GROWS BUT
THE PLOT 180

XXI. CURTAIN POLLS 184

XXII. THE CURTAIN ROD 193

XXIII. SPACE BETWEEN AN HEROICK COUPLET 198

XXIV. DAISH'S ROOMS 209

XXV. QUARTS OF BURGUNDY 216

XXVI. AND THE DREGS OF THE SAME 231

XXVII. TIME FOR REFLECTION 236

XXVIII. THE LOVE CHASE 247

XXIX. THE BASKET OF ROSES 255

XXX. SIR GEORGE REPINGTON 265

XXXI. A TALE WITH AN INTERRUPTED MORAL 273

XXXII. THE HORRID ADVENTURES OF BEAU RIPPLE AND MRS. COURTEEN 277

XXXIII. THE HIGHWAYMEN 290

XXXIV. OLD ACQUAINTANCE 300

XXXV. THE CUTTING OF A DIAMOND 312

XXXVI. THE SCARLET DAWN 319

XXXVII. APRIL FOOLS 334

XXXVIII. BEAU LOVELY 340

_The PASSIONATE ELOPEMENT_

_Chapter the First_

THE TOILET

The meagre sun that for thirteen pallid February days had shone with no
more brilliance than a rushlight stuck amid the cobwebs of a garret,
poured down at last his profuse glories, and Curtain Wells woke up to a
fine morning and the burden of conscious existence, with an effort all
the more completely unanimous on account of its reputation as an inland
Spa. Residence there implied an almost monastick ideal of regularity.
Other shrines of AEsculapius, falling from their primitive purity of
worship, might set up for adoration a hooped Venus or bag-wigged Cupid,
but Curtain Wells would never admit so naked and misleading a pair of
Immortals. Her fountains ministered to bodily ailments--Vapours, Winds,
Gouts, Quinsies, Consumptions, Fevers quartan and tertian--without
pretending to the power of love-philtres or the sparkle of the Castalian
Spring. 'Tis true, romantick dusk or sunset candlelight might consecrate
the vows of many a shepherd and shepherdess, but those stretched hours
of dalliance were always understood to be the sensuous reward of a
strict matutinal discipline.

Consequently Curtain Wells woke up as to a bugle-call. Casement-hangings
were flung back, shutters unbarred and, wonderful to relate, an
occasional window-sash creaked and subsided. A simultaneous toilet would
be followed by a simultaneous visit to the cleansing springs. Drums,
routs, auctions, ridottos, and masquerades did not avail to keep their
votaries abed. Perchance a velvet patch would hide the wearer's secret
blemish less artfully; beneath young Miss Kitcat's eyes there might be a
deeper violet than the state of her health warranted; my lady Bunbutter
newly arrived from scurrilous Bath might see her nose sharpen to a
richer carmine point; but half-past eight o'clock would behold them all
bound for the Pump Room, somewhat reticent perhaps, a little fretful
even, yet completely subjugated by their self-imposed renunciation.

St. Simon's clock struck the half-hour of seven, and the birds who live
tropick days in the eternal summer of chintz curtains seemed to crow
remorsefully at any sluggard who was inclined longer to indulge his
laziness. The sun spangled their plumage with innumerable pin-points of
light until they began to glow with all the astonishing dyes of printed
fabricks. They glowed and ruffled until the sluggard forsook his couch
and, creeping over the chilly floor, flung them back into a day-long
folded tranquillity. Here, then, is an excellent opportunity to catch a
few of our fine characters unaware. Follow the guidance of my Muses and
you will see hero and heroine, comedian, villain, and chorus stripped of
all outward aids to beauty. You may trust the modesty of Clio and
Melpomene who will certainly treat their own sex with discretion and
admit you to the keyhole not a moment before it becomes your disposition
of mind. Pray do not expect a wanton exhibition because you are holding
on to the draperies of two pagan young women.

See that fine house in the middle of the Crescent. Mark the flambeaux
guttering and sputtering into an odorous death. Note the flattened
Ionick columns which lend it such an air of superiority, and the extra
story, and the fat bow-windows on either side of the door. Look well at
the door with its cornice of airy Cupids for ever playing Hide and Seek
behind solemn urns and festoons of carven flowers.

That is the Great House where Beau Ripple lives. Do you wonder at the
early hour of rising when you know that his decree was responsible for
the united achievement? I cannot think you do; especially if you have
read his _Epigrams_ published by Mr. Scratch at the Sign of the _Claw_
in Paul's Churchyard--those epigrams with razor-keen edge translated
into Latin by Doctor Fumble and into Greek by the Reverend Mr. Tootell.
We read how, in ancient days, tyrants beguiled their political victims
with Impromptus of their own composition and at Curtain Wells it was
esteemed an honour to be reprimanded in such polished prose. Mr. Ripple
scorned the easy allurements of metre and, although in himself he summed
up the profound artificiality of his age, he was wont to say that Verse
as a form of composition possessed all the disadvantages of prose
without any of the advantages.

Let us take a glimpse at the Great Man in the Great House while the
little maid is pondering the gaudy Valentine stuck in a crack of the
basement-steps by the sweep's apprentice.

That carpet of mellow hue was presented by the Captain of an East
Indiaman, much addicted to wind. It muffles the footsteps of the
courtiers who throng the stairs, and secures a respectful calm. It even
enables us to reach the door of his bedchamber unheralded, but as,
invisible and armed with reverence, we cross the threshold, the Great
Beau is nowhere to be seen. We observe his bedclothes dignified even in
disarray, we see the open patchbox, the bottles of Eau de Luce and Eau
de Chypre, the black sattin tie and the wig on the stand, but not until,
instinct with awe, we drop our eyes, do we behold two pink feet and the
Circumference of the least austere portion of his anatomy wrapped, it is
true, in embroidered dressing gown, and with the bedspread hung about it
like a pall, yet nevertheless an unmistakeable Circumference protruding
from beneath the bed. Diana very wisely killed Actaeon for overlooking
her toilet, and I doubt we deserve the same penalty, for when, the
errant button in his hand, we see the Beau emerge with purple cheeks and
oaths innumerable, a certain conviction steals over our shocked
sensibility that the Great little Man is only mortal after all, of the
same temper and anatomy as ourselves, and, as the gods know very well,
this is a mighty dangerous and revolutionary discovery.

There stood Beau Ripple dancing and d--g, while a monologue with
appropriate action went somehow like this:

_Beau._ D---- all buttons for being round.

Then he danced.

_Beau._ D---- all pins for dropping upon the floor and the chambermaids
for not picking them up, and my own feet for treading on them.

Then he danced again.

_Beau._ D---- all beds for being wide.

Then he danced.

_Beau._ D---- my eyes, I shall be late for the waters.

Then he danced to his mirrour. And the mirrour showed a man of ripe age
with smooth round face and a pair of very blue eyes.

_Beau._ And d---- you, Ripple, for a clumsy old fool.

Hereupon the Great little Man beamed at himself, for the nature of him
was so truly kind that he could not be crossed by himself for long, and
as for the world, his severity never upset the balance of a well-turned
phrase. He was an urbane man, one who had presumably lived all his life
in prim and decorous cities but, since he will preside over this story
of mine, we shall learn more about him as we go along.

Further round the Crescent, Mrs. Choke let furnished apartments to
valetudinarian bachelors, and in one of the brightest of these, Mr.
Francis Vernon sat before his looking glass contemplatively combing his
wig. His closely cropped curly hair accentuated the lines of a profile
already inclined to sharpness, just as his red lips enhanced the
surrounding paleness of his complexion. He combed his wig very much as a
man strokes a cat. The caress half-felt loses itself in speculation, and
just now Mr. Vernon was gazing at the wrought-iron balcony of the
opposite house where Miss Phyllida Courteen, all swansdown and rosy
cheeks, was plucking half a dozen snowdrops from a bough-pot. These were
to be enclosed in a note and sent by the hand of the first
pleasant-looking passer-by to Miss Sukey Morton in the Western
Colonnade. And the aforesaid Miss Morton would, in the estimation of
Miss Courteen, simper and blush and confide in her dear Phyllida that,
though she had known he admired her and indeed, had proffered her a
dropped fan more than once at the Monday Assemblies, yet never, _never_
had she for a moment imagined that he would _dare_ to send her a
Valentine, and if he had, she would have _died_ rather than take it,
yes, _died_, for _what_ she would do when she passed him next Monday
evening, she could not _think_, especially as he was _known_ to be
partial to her, and her Mechlin pinner was quite ruined by the
_abominable_ wax-candles they would use just because the P---- of
W---- was not coming that year after all.

Miss Courteen was so much charmed by this loquacious dream that she
began to compose an appropriate verse destined to be wrapped round the
green stalks of the flowers.

_The snowdrop's white_
_And so are you. . ._

The smallest foot in the world beat time upon the balcony making the
iron bars on which she stood vibrate in twanging chords, but failed to
summon from the caves of Poesy an echo worthy of the snowdrop's white.

"The last line is monstrous easy," she thought.

_The bluebell's blue!_ and the accumulation of liquids and labials has
enchanted her mouth to such a delicious pout that Mr. Vernon is leaning
forward and combing his wig more contemplatively than ever, for,
although he cannot see his charmer's lips, he feels sure from the
attitude of her whole body that her face is infernally captivating, and
the memory of her last whispered good-bye assails him and kindles a
leaping flame at the back of his hazel eyes.

Such a merciless regard as ours penetrates to the heart and we know that
Mr. Vernon is wondering what on earth will come of his affair with Miss
Courteen, and speculating how much she will inherit, and whether
matrimony is quite so expensive a joy as his friends make out. The
thought of money writes an ugly twisted line across his high smooth
forehead, and this line broadens into a hundred little tributary lines
as he thinks of his debts. So he brings himself back to the obstacles of
life in rather a gloomy frame of mind and faces the necessity of his
toilet in such a depression of spirits that he selects a suit to match
his mood. And that is the reason why Mr. Francis Vernon wore purple
sattin on Valentine morning.

All this while, Miss Courteen is quite unable to invent that odious
third line, and though she taps her foot to aerial musick and pulls a
chestnut curl right over her nose and twists it round her fingers and
wonders whether 'white' is a notably difficult word to rhyme, she never
succeeds, and just when she has almost succeeded, her mother's voice
sounds from the floor above. This disposes of inspiration altogether,
for though her mother's voice is very melodious and sounds prodigiously
pleasant as it murmurs 'Spadille' or 'Manille' over the card-tables, it
will allow no competition, and drives all invisible musick far away.

"Coming, dear mamma," says Phyllida just as Mr. Vernon decides to wear
purple and just as we step out of Mrs. Choke's front door thinking it
can no longer be indiscreet to follow our Muses to the scene of Mrs.
Courteen's toilet.

As we cross the road glittering in the sunshine with last night's rain,
we see a tall young gentleman writing busily in a set of ivory tablets
as he strolls quietly along the pavement. Mr. Lovely, the young
gentleman, looks up very quickly as a three-cornered note flutters down
and lodges in a fold of his ruffles. Miss Courteen who felt the note
falling, and thinks that after all she need not make more than a pretty
attempt to save it, peers over the railing into the upturned face of the
young gentleman who bows very low and sweeps his hat round in a very
grand curve, and begs to apologize for the awkwardness of his ruffles in
thus intercepting a lady's note. And you and I, my inquisitive
companion, stand still for a moment and watch the picture, remembering
it is merry Valentine morn. The maid with wide eyes and crimson cheeks
nestling in swansdown and the young man of the laughing expectant face,
in his peach-coloured velvet suit, seem somehow to have caught the
spirit of the day: they make us think of broken stiles, of hedges heavy
with may, of blue and white April noons, of lambs, and children with
pinafores a-flutter gathering cowslip-posies on a wind-washed down, and
of all the old and dear delights of Spring.

Says Phyllida, "Oh! pray pardon my clumsiness."

And "Madam," says he very gallantly, "I'm incredibly obliged, for you've
given me a rhyme."

"Oh! pray tell me--was it to 'white'?"

"Nay! 'twas harder than that," he murmurs.

"But I think that is monstrous difficult."

"Bright, sight, light," (cheerfully) "height," (regretfully) "night,"
(hopefully) and "fight," (fiercely).

"Indeed," adds Phyllida, "I thought of every one of them, but not one
would fit the sense."

The young gentleman who is a rhymester himself, grows interested. "Might
I," says he, "without impertinence inquire your necessity?"

"Sure, 'tis for a Valentine," and as Mr. Lovely's face darkens, she
hurriedly adds, "for a young lady, a friend of mine, you'll see the
direction writ on the flap."

His face clears again and he asks,

"You wish it delivered?"

"Oh, sir! how did you guess?"

"By accident, ma'am, or a happy intuition, I stepped out to take the air
this fine morning, and chance has discovered for me an incontrovertible
excuse for such idle exercise. To be footman to a sister of the Muses is
surely appropriate service for a poet."

"Then you are a poet?"

"My publisher affirms it."

"How romantick truly!" but the tail of the sigh is interrupted by her
mother's voice, and she has bare time to murmur her thanks, drop a
genteel curtsey and vanish. As for Mr. Lovely he has registered a vow to
attend the Monday Assembly next week instead of sitting down to Hazard
at the _Blue Boar_ Inn.

Abovestairs all is confusion because Mrs. Courteen cannot make up her
mind between yellow lutestring and orange silk. Phyllida whose heart is
full of the dancing springtide thinks her dear mamma should wear the
brightest colours and the richest stuffs in the world.

"For if you would only allow the curtains to be drawn back, you would
see what a golden morning it is outside," she complains to her mother
who answers:

"Women of fashion, Phyllida, dress by candlelight for candlelight."

Betty the maid, agrees with her young mistress, "Sweet, pretty dear
lamb," as she asseverates in Hampshire accents, "Orange silk, say I, and
God bless the gaulden sun."

Mrs. Courteen who is sitting nearly half-undressed and quite incapable
of forming a decision, bids Betty go and find out Thomas' opinion.
Thomas is the family footman and a great critick of men, women, and
religions. Presently Betty comes back and says that Tammas would prefar
yaller.

"Why, Betty, why?"

"Because," answers the maid, "he says silks are for the vain and
abominable and lutestrings have a pleasant twang and savour of the
psalmist."

So Mrs. Courteen turns from yellow sack to orange sack and from
primrose-quilted petticoat to apricock-quilted petticoat in despair,
till at last Betty asks triumphantly:

"How would it be, ma'am, if you was to wear your most elegant and truly
genteel green sattin seeing that it do be Saint Valentine with a smell
of green leaves in the air?"

This provokes a new decision, and causes a great rummaging in drawers
and presses and closets until the gown, fragrant with last year's
lavender, is discovered, when the toilet too long neglected starts
afresh.

"What patches, ma'am?" says Betty.

"My Cupid's bow and the two tears of widowhood."

"What scents, mamma?" asks Phyllida.

"My Citron Essence, child."

Then shoes are buckled, stockings are gartered, and a black mantua
placed gently round her shoulders. One more touch of powder, one more
brush from the rouge pot, one more flounce and one more flirt while the
watchet ribbands in the cap are hastily changed to ribbands of palest
apple-green, and a pair of emerald snaps are quickly fastened.

"Does my hoop sit straight? Oh! Lud! I vow I shall be late."

A breathless moment and, in place of the mantua, a tippet of pheasants'
feathers is adjusted. Down the Crescent is heard the opening of many
doors. Phyllida runs to the window, draws back the curtains so that the
sun streams in upon the sicklied candles.

"Has the Beau appeared yet?" asks Mrs. Courteen.

"Here he comes, and oh! mamma, he is wearing a suit of olive-green."

"What great good fortune! what taste I shall display. Green is certainly
the fashionable colour," and Mrs. Courteen began to trill to a tune of
her own invention....

"I shall be _a la mode_, I shall be _a la mode_ and very _bon ton_ and
_tres bon ton_."

Radiant, she descends the stairs followed by Betty carrying an enormous
glass goblet. Outside, rubicund Thomas with heavily knobbed cane awaits
her. The widow glances over her shoulder at the crowds swinging down the
street, all equipped with glass goblets of various sizes and shapes. She
throws an anxious glance towards the head of the procession. The Beau is
certainly in green of a shade slightly darker than her own but,
nevertheless, distinctly comparable. She tosses her cap in anticipation
of the envied triumph and sails in the general direction.

And you, Achates, who have accompanied me so early in the morning to the
toilets of some of our principal characters, pray give yourself the
additional trouble of thinking what a Great Man he must be to induce
these butterflies and moths of fashion to sally forth Cap a Pie perfect
at half-past eight o'clock of a February morning.

"Let Bath be true to her bedgowns," he wrote, "in Curtain Wells we are
ignorant that men and women undress."

When we think of that apoplectick Circumference which so lately
protruded, we can heartily assent to his opinion.

_Chapter the Second_

THE PUMP ROOM

As all roads are commonly reputed to lead to Earls Court, so here at
Curtain Wells all roads led to the Pump Room. It dominated the city from
the summit of a moderately steep hill as the Acropolis dominates the
almost equally famous city of Athens. In certain aspects it bore a
remarkable likeness to a Greek temple with its fluted columns and
portico haunted by many white pigeons. It was even more like a gigantick
summer-house whose interior was always open to the four winds. Any
reasonable explanation of a spring that gushed forth at the very top of
a hill always eluded those who toiled laboriously up the slope; but, as
a more religious butterfly once remarked, Providence plainly designed it
to serve some useful purpose by allowing it to gush forth at such an
unexpected elevation. The same lady used to regard volcanoes as an
uncomfortable if divine method of destroying large numbers of Papists
together, and would pertinently observe that if England had admitted the
claims of the Pretender, she was convinced what was now a cool,
health-giving fountain would have boiled over to the horrid
accompaniment of flames and lava. At precisely a quarter to nine
o'clock, Beau Ripple paused at the foot of the hill to survey through a
monocle his flurried followers. A wag once said that Ripple liked to
gaze at life through the wrong end of a spy-glass, because he himself
was of so small a stature. Whether this monocle actually diminished his
world to the size of an ant-heap, I do not know, but certainly the whole
assemblage stopped to recover their breath as if conscious of their
utter lack of importance in the eyes of the Great little Man. The
Physician-in-chief was solemnly beckoned into hearing.

"Two minutes," said the Beau.

Mr. Oboe the Physician opened the lid of an enormous watch attached to a
red silk fob and regarded the dial with an expression of great
intentness. He might, so complete was his abstraction, have been feeling
the pulse of the Exquisite Mob behind him.

Slowly the minutes rolled by while the Beau took several possessive
sniffs of the young spring air. Not an unseemly whisper disturbed the
silence. So still was it that above the cooing of the sacred pigeons on
the roof of the Pump Room, far down in the valley could be heard the
lowing of cows. At thirteen minutes to nine Mr. Ripple let his monocle
drop; Mr. Oboe replaced his watch; the Pump Room bell began to clang
very fast; the Exquisite Mob started to climb the hill and innumerable
glass goblets glittered in the sun. When the summit was reached the Beau
called in a loud voice:

"Oboe!"

"Mr. Ripple?" bowed the Physician.

"I allow two more minutes for panting."

"Certainly, Mr. Ripple. Very just, sir."

So the Exquisite Mob like the Hart panted after the Waters or perhaps
more accurately before them.

At the expiration of the breathing-space, a diminutive negro known as
Gog advanced towards Mr. Ripple, bearing a fluted goblet upon a tray of
Chinese lacker. An equally diminutive negro called Magog presented the
goblet to Mr. Ripple who turned slightly in the direction of the company
and slowly sipped his portion with consummate meditation. When almost
half-way towards the bottom of the glass the Beau looked up as if
surprized to see his adherents still thirsty. This was understood to be
the signal for approach, and the Exquisite Mob advanced to drink while
the children, miniatures of foppery, played Hide and Seek or Touchlast
round the pillars.

Mrs. Courteen sailed towards a thin little military man with a very long
and very crisp pigtail, whose outstanding feature in front was an
extremely conical Adam's Apple that bobbed up and down as if his throat
were a bowl of water and, rising with his choler, at boiling-point
invariably choked him into incoherence.

The Major would have passed for one of those half-pay officers who
frequent watering-places and rely for many of their meals upon an
acquaintance with the tacticks and strategy of the late Duke of
Marlborough, with the miserable failure of Carthagena and the already
forgotten personality of his Highness the Duke of C---- d.

As a matter of fact, he had followed Mrs. Courteen to Curtain Wells from
Hampshire where he owned a small hunting lodge known as Ramilies House,
Oudenarde Grange, and Malplaquet Place according to his humour, but for
no discoverable reason besides. He had a painted board for each
designation, but nobody ever extracted from him the principle on which,
from time to time, they were changed. When asked on one occasion why he
omitted the famous victory of Blenheim from his titular commemoration,
he replied that the omission saved the expense of continually forwarding
letters to Oxfordshire. The Major was inclined to resent the homage paid
to Beau Ripple.

"A d----d civilian, ma'am," he muttered to Mrs. Courteen.

"Oh! you soldiers! I protest you have no reverence for anybody."

"Not I, ma'am. I don't bow the knee to a living soul. Not at all.
'Sblood, ma'am, the fellow's no better than a low adventurer. Would he
fight? Not he. So he forbids us to wear swords. D---- n it, ma'am, a
soldier without his hanger is like a monkey without his tail. That's
what I say."

"So do I, Major, so do I," echoed a suave voice over his shoulder and
the Major turning round, encountered the bland half-bored, half-tolerant
smile of the Great little Man.

"Your similes are uncommon happy, Major."

Tarry's Apple throbbed and bubbled and rose and sank, but the Beau
passed on contemptuously, and a large flabby man in a suit of
snuff-coloured frieze treading upon the Major's toe at this moment, the
latter's wrath flowed into another channel.

"My toe, Mr. Moon!" he said furiously.

"Your toe?" inquired the other with great earnestness. The question of
disputed property which seemed imminent was quashed by the widow's
interruption:

"'Tis too early for argument. Come, neighbours, let us make our
promenade. Where is Phyllida?"

But Phyllida was making her promenade at a careful distance behind her
mother. Phyllida was taking the demurest little steps with an arm in her
beloved Betty's arm and with a swansdown muff held against her cheek to
ward off the shrewd Easterly wind, while almost level with the two maids
walked a stately gentleman of a pale complexion. And every time the
gentleman stopped to survey the promenaders over the tortoise-shell
handle of his ebony walking-stick, Phyllida and Betty stopped to see if
it was truly a quarter-past nine o'clock by St. Simon's church tower.
And every time the gentleman stopped to flick a speck of dust from his
purple sattin sleeve, by a very odd coincidence Miss Courteen always
stopped to see if her shoe had really become unbuckled. This tends to
show that in spite of all the precautions of Beau Ripple, the innermost
fane of AEsculapius had been invaded by a strange god. I doubt Miss
Courteen, considered by her mother too young for Chalybeate, was
learning to drink of that deep well whose waters will never run dry so
long as maids and men frequent its precincts.

The Exquisite Mob continued to circle round the Pump Room because the
ritual of the Cure prescribed an hour's steady promenade before
breakfast. The scarlet heels of innumerable shoes clicked in unison and
the drowsy hum of morning small talk rose and fell upon the February
air. All agreed it was a monstrous fine day for the season of the year.
All expressed the opinion that by no stretch of imagination could such
weather be expected to last. All wished it would indeed, and everybody
asked his neighbour whether he intended to grace the next Assembly, and
the neighbour invariably replied he had every intention of doing so.
Everybody bowed or curtseyed very low to Mr. Ripple and Mr. Ripple had a
delightfully well-turned sentence for each of his subjects, as if he
would reward their energy in rising so early. Occasionally the Great
little Man would condescend to take a pinch of the best Rappee with an
elderly gentleman. But as he never took snuff with anybody under the
rank of Viscount in the peerage of England and as the peer thus honoured
was bound to be above the age of five-and-forty, it happened that the
elderly gentleman was always old Lord Vanity, the only individual
present who satisfied the double requirement.

"How different this scene is from Hampshire to be sure, though for my
part I shall ever protest that those who have eyes to see, let them see,
and people who accuse us of wasting our time forget how persistently
they look for the arrival of the carrier."

Whether or not Major Tarry and Mr. Moon understood this remark of Mrs.
Courteen's, they certainly both agreed with her.

"To-day is Session day," muttered the Justice rather gloomily.

"Well, sir, the magistrates will do their business without you," snapped
his rival.

"Not unlikely, sir, not unlikely."

"Well, sir, what the deuce are you grumbling at?"

Mr. Moon replied that he was not grumbling, he was merely commenting;
and the two gentlemen bickered on across placid Mrs. Courteen like two
children over a hedge.

Meanwhile on the farther side of the Course, as the broad path round the
Pump Room was called, Mr. Vernon was still keeping step with Phyllida
and Betty, but so delicately did the former tread and so far aloof did
he appear that no one suspected him of anything so low as ogling pretty
Miss Courteen or her maid. Sometimes he would murmur "When will my
charmer be there?" and every time he asked this question, the charmer
would send a rippling little laugh into her swansdown muff, and flash a
glance over the top towards Betty who would toss her head and imply that
such curiosity was worth a long-delayed gratification.

At last Mr. Vernon would take out his laced handkerchief and flick
presumably at a ghostly Despair. Phyllida would be prodigiously afraid
that her dear Amor (by that name only did she know her lover) was
growing unhappy at her hard-hearted treatment and, feeling she had
tormented his patience long enough, would gently shake her muff until a
piece of paper fluttered slowly to the ground. Mr. Vernon would stoop
with indescribable grace and distinction of manner, and while Miss
Courteen looked very demure indeed and quite innocent of anything or
anybody in the world, he would put the piece of paper in his
handkerchief and press the handkerchief to his lips and look round the
corner of his eyes at Phyllida, who would just by chance be looking
round the corner of her eyes to ascertain if her Mamma were beckoning to
her.