“If you will honour me by taking a seat at table, and partaking of our—er—bachelor fare, Miss West, I shall be entirely at your service afterwards,” he said, conducting her to a vacant place opposite his own. “May I introduce my friend Mr. Treherne”—(Mr. Treherne had seen her on the stairs, and hugged himself as he noted the fact)—“and Mr. Fitzherbert?”
“I think Miss West and I have met before,” said Mr. Fitzherbert, smiling and bowing as he rose simultaneously with Mr. Treherne, and then subsided into his chair. This was nuts. The beautiful Miss West coming quite on the sly to Wynne’s chambers—and Wynne such a staid and proper Johnnie too!—and finding, to her horror, company! It was altogether most peculiar.
However, Mr. Fitzherbert had his wits about him, and was full of society small-talk and presence of mind, and soon he and the lady were conversing vivaciously of mutual friends, and the awkward edge of this extraordinary incident had been blunted.
Soup was brought back for Miss West. The waiter waited as a waiter should wait. The dinner was well chosen and excellent (supplied from a neighbouring restaurant).
Meanwhile the good laundress watched the whole proceedings with her eye glued to a crack in the door, and suffered no look or gesture to escape her. She owed this to the whole of her acquaintance, for surely such a sight as she enjoyed was rarely seen. Three young bachelors, in evening dress, sitting by themselves so nice and proper, and then a grand young lady, in a beautiful dress and jewels, walking in unasked, and taking a place among them! What could it mean? It was surely not the thing for a lady—and she looked that—to be coming alone, and on foot, to chambers in the Temple, and especially to see Mr. Wynne, of all the quiet, reasonable-like men, who never looked at a woman! Oh, it beat all, that it did! And how grave he seemed, though he was talking away pleasant enough.
Thus we leave her, with her eye to the door, thoroughly enjoying herself for once in her life.
It was more than could be said for Laurence Wynne. Never had he felt so uncomfortable. What would Fitzherbert and Treherne think of Miss West? If the story got round the clubs, Madeline’s reputation was at the mercy of every old woman—ay, and old man—in London. What on earth did she mean by descending on him at this hour, and dressed as if she was going to the opera?
He stole a glance across the candle-shades. She was conversing quite at her ease with Mr. Treherne, who was looking all the admiration he no doubt felt—and no doubt Madeline was beautiful.
What a complexion, what eyes, what clean-cut features, what a radiant, vivacious expression—and all set off by youth, a good milliner, and diamonds.
“Who would dream,” he said, as he slowly withdrew his gaze, “that she was the same Madeline who, two years previously, had been Miss Selina’s slave, and had attracted his notice and commiseration in her darned and shabby black gown? or that she was the same Madeline who had pawned the very dress off her back not twelve months ago? She could not be the same.” He looked at her again. The idea of such a thing was grotesque nonsense. She, this brilliant being who had suddenly presented herself at his humble entertainment, had surely never been his hard-working, poverty-stricken, struggling wife. If she had, he could not realize the fact. This magnificent-looking young lady was a stranger to him. This was a woman—or girl—of the world.