"Oh, my dear Mr. Kingston, is it you?" the stately matron exclaimed. "How glad I am to see you—I have not met you for an age! Where have you been? And when are you coming to call on me again?"
"I will come whenever you will allow me," this illustrious person replied, with an alacrity of demeanour that did not escape notice. "I thought of coming this afternoon, and on my way I saw your carriage, and your niece told me that you were shopping."
"No; I did not tell you that," interposed Rachel gravely.
He looked at her and laughed, and his laugh for some unaccountable reason called her retreating blushes back. Mrs. Hardy glanced sharply from one to the other, and then she also laughed, in decorous matronly fashion.
"Well, come and dine with us to-night," the elder lady said, "and take us to the opera. That would be a friendly thing to do, if you are disposed to be friendly. Beatrice and Mr. Reade are coming—nobody else; and you can take Mr. Hardy's ticket. He is always glad to get off going."
"I will indeed—I will with pleasure," was the prompt response; and with some further exchange of civilities, the friends separated.
Mr. Kingston walked away to his club, with his flower in his button-hole, swinging his umbrella gently, and wondering to what class of woman this pretty Miss Fetherstonhaugh belonged.
"Is she a coquette?" he asked himself over and over again; "or is she charmingly fresh and simple?"
Mrs. Hardy rolled home in her little Victoria, and she also asked herself questions which were by no means easy to answer, as she stole furtive glances at the little black figure sitting, watchful and alert, beside her.
"My dear," she said presently, breaking a long silence, "where is your rosebud gone to?"