"Then light one jet in the drawing-room, please."
Here they sit quietly talking for half an hour, during which, at times, Mr. Cobbe talked loud and excitedly, while sometimes Mrs. Gower's voice came to them in pleading, or quieting tones.
At last he goes into the dining-room, asks Thomas for some sherry, drinks two glasses; is again in the hall, his over-shoes, coat, and fur cap on, in his excitement picking up Mr. Blair's gloves, which, when in the street, finding his mistake, he dashes into the road.
Angry and troubled by Mrs. Gower's words, he is kinder to Beatrice Hill than he has been for some time.
"You here again, Betty. You are infatuated with me, anyway."
"Indeed, I am, sweetheart, but my love doesn't content you. You bet, I'd sooner have a black look from you than a kiss from any man living. The saints forgive me, when I think of the holy Father and cardinals, and how I worship you, Phil."
"Yes, you are wild about me, I know, Betty, but we men are different to you, you know; we have so many adorers, we can't go mooning forever around one woman."
"And you are not angry with me to-night, Phil, for coming again to get a sight of your dear face?"
"No, I am not angry with you to-night; but you must not come again; they don't like it," he said, importantly.
"If I don't see you, I may as well die," she says despondently. "I love you better than any of them ladies do," she says, feeling her way.