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“Impertinent!” cried Lady Allonby; “now of whatever can the creature be talking!”

“I mean that, as your widowship well knows, marrying puts a man in his proper place. And that the outcome is salutary for proud, puffed-up fellows I would be the last to dispute. Indeed, I incline to dispute nothing, for I find that perfect felicity is more potent than wine. I am now all pastoral raptures, and were it not for the footmen there, I do not know to what lengths I might go.”

“In that event,” Lady Allonby decided, “I shall fetch Dorothy, that the crown may be set upon your well-being. And previously I will dismiss the footmen.” She did so with a sign toward those lordly beings.

“Believe me,” said Mr. Erwyn, “’tis what I have long wished for. And when Miss Allonby honors me with her attention I shall, since my life’s happiness depends upon the issue, plead with all the eloquence of a starveling barrister, big with the import of his first case. May I, indeed, rest assured that any triumph over her possible objections may be viewed with not unfavorable eyes?”

“O sir,” said Lady Allonby, “believe me, there is nothing I more earnestly desire than that you may obtain all which is necessary for your welfare. I will fetch Dorothy.”

The largest footman but one removed Mr. Erwyn’s cup.

II

Mr. Erwyn, left alone, smiled at his own reflection in the mirror; rearranged his ruffles with a deft and shapely hand; consulted his watch; made sure that the padding which enhanced the calves of his most notable legs was all as it should be; seated himself and hummed a merry air, in meditative wise; and was in such posture when the crimson hangings that shielded the hall-door quivered and broke into tumultuous waves and yielded up Miss Dorothy Allonby.

Being an heiress, Miss Allonby was by an ancient custom brevetted a great beauty; and it is equitable to add that the sourest misogynist could hardly have refused, pointblank, to countersign the commission. They said of Dorothy Allonby that her eyes were as large as her bank account, and nearly as formidable as her tongue; and it is undeniable that on provocation there was in her speech a tang of acidity, such (let us say) as renders a salad none the less palatable. In a word, Miss Allonby pitied the limitations of masculine humanity more readily than its amorous pangs, and cuddled her women friends as she did kittens, with a wary and candid apprehension of their power to scratch; and decision was her key-note; continually she knew to the quarter-width of a cobweb what she wanted, and invariably she got it.

Such was the person who, with a habitual emphasis which dowagers found hoydenish and all young men adorable, demanded without prelude:

“Heavens! What can it be, Mr. Erwyn, that has cast Mother into this unprecedented state of excitement?”

“What, indeed?” said he, and bowed above her proffered hand.

“For like a hurricane, she burst into my room and cried, ‘Mr. Erwyn has something of importance to declare to you–why did you put on that gown?–bless you, my child–‘ all in one eager breath; then kissed me, and powdered my nose, and despatched me to you without any explanation. And why?” said Miss Allonby.

“Why, indeed?” said Mr. Erwyn.

“It is very annoying,” said she, decisively.

“Sending you to me?” said Mr. Erwyn, a magnitude of reproach in his voice.

“That,” said Miss Allonby, “I can pardon–and easily. But I dislike all mysteries, and being termed a child, and being–“

“Yes?” said Mr. Erwyn.

“–and being powdered on the nose,” said Miss Allonby, with firmness. She went to the mirror, and, standing on the tips of her toes, peered anxiously into its depths. She rubbed her nose, as if in disapproval, and frowned, perhaps involuntarily pursing up her lips,–which Mr. Erwyn intently regarded, and then wandered to the extreme end of the apartment, where he evinced a sudden interest in bric-à-brac.