"Mrs. Wingfield! Mrs. Wingfield!" cried Bertram.
"Mr. Bertram! Mr. Bertram! were you a benedict, you would say my forethought was sweetly touching."
"And here have I, a lonely bachelor," he continued; "been regretting the non-existence of my Madame Bertram, though none could grace the head of my table better than the lady now seated there."
"Merci," said Lady Esmondet, "you are such a host in yourself that you leave us nothing to regret in the absence of Mrs. Bertram."
"Why," said Trevalyon sadly, in a low tone to Vaura; "why, will we continually make a jest over those poor creatures unequally yoked together."
"Very frequently, I think," she said softly, "to hide a deeper feeling; though it hurts us painfully to do so."
"I vow I'd rather be a jolly old bachelor like Mr. Bertram, with plenty of money, than husband to the Queen of Sheba, were she not defunct," exclaimed Mrs. Wingfield.
"What a boon to men and society is a woman without marriageable daughters," laughed Vaura.
"Yes," said Everly; "she can air her private opinions on the marriage question."
"With the right one, what a restful paradise it would be," said Trevalyon to Vaura's ear alone. And there was such a weariness in his tone, that she gave him one swift sympathetic glance; for in spite of herself her heartstrings were stirred, but she must not give way, so says lightly, as following Lady Esmondet's signal, they leave the table, the gentlemen refusing to linger: