A servant entered the room, and Mr. Bindane, playing the host with relish, ordered the refreshments.
Charles Barthampton had seen Muriel more than once since her return from the desert, and now he had come with the determination to make her a proposal of marriage. He was nervous, therefore, and soon he was helping himself liberally from the decanter and with marked moderation from the syphon. While doing so he thought he observed the older man’s eye upon him, and felt that candour would not here come amiss.
“I’m fortifying myself,” he laughed, holding up his glass. “Fact is, I’m going to pop the question this afternoon.”
Mr. Bindane nodded slowly, with seeming abstraction, and his lordship decided that a little drama ought to be added to his words.
“Yes,” he said, bracing his shoulders bravely, “this suspense is too much for me; so I’m going to rattle the dice with Fate, and win all or lose all at a single throw. What d’you think of my chances?”
“Not much,” replied Mr. Bindane, gloomily. “Lady Muriel is a difficult sort of girl. Still, she may be suffering from a reaction: you may catch her on the rebound.”
The words slipped from him without intention; but as soon as they were spoken he realized that he would either have to explain them or cover them up as best he could.
“How d’you mean?” came the inevitable question, and Mr. Bindane’s brains were immediately set rapidly to work. He knew that Lord Barthampton was running after the girl’s fortune: such a chase seemed a very natural thing to his business mind; and he did not suppose that the suitor would be deterred by hearing that the lady’s hand had already been given temporarily to another.
“Well,” he replied, “you know, of course, that she was by way of being in love with your cousin a short time ago.”
His visitor scowled. “No, I didn’t know that,” he muttered. “Confound the fellow!—he’s always getting in my way. I wish he’d stay in the desert, and not come back.”