“And I do not. And I suppose I know a little more of the world than you do. You seem to think it would be a joke to fling down your good name, and allow it to be destroyed from pure wantonness, but I shall not permit it.”
“Laurence how you do talk! One would think you were addressing a jury, or were some old fogey laying down the law!”
“I am laying down the law.”
“You must please remember that I am accustomed to be spoiled. Now, my wishes are law in Belgrave Square, and you are going to carry them out, and take me to see ‘The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith.’”
“Take care that you do not become the notorious Miss West.”
“Now, Laurence, you know you cannot really say ‘no’ to me. Oh!”—with a slight start—“here comes the coffee at last!” as the laundress, who insisted upon doing this little errand in person, in order to have what she called “a rare good look,” fumbled at the door, pushed it open with her knee, and marched in, carrying a small tray, which she laid very slowly on the table, her eyes all the while being fixed on the beautiful vision standing by the fire.
She had her face turned away; but Mr. Wynne, who was leaning his head on his hand, and his elbow on the mantelpiece, confronted her steadily and said, in a less cordial tone than usual, “There, Mrs. Potts, that will do! You need not wait. Call a hansom as soon as you go downstairs,” and Mrs. Potts very reluctantly shuffled out. She had seen a good deal, but was as much at sea as ever.
The young woman had her hand on Mr. Wynne’s arm when she went in, and was saying, “you know you cannot say ‘no’ to me, and are going to take me to the theatre.” Was ever such a brazen piece! He had his head turned away, and looked as if he’d rather have her room than her company. The girls run after the men now, and no mistake! It was scandalous! The haystack after the cow! Supposing this young person’s folk were to know of her carryings on—and with Mr. Wynne, of all men! It beat everything that Mrs. Potts had come across right away into a cocked hat!
A few minutes later they were coming down the stairs, miss all wrapped up in a long velvet cloak, which velvet cloak Mrs. Potts having found in the outer office, had done herself the pleasure of examining, and—low be it spoken—trying on. None of your “paletot things,” as she expressed it, but a long mantle of crimson velvet, reaching down to the floor, trimmed with thick, soft fur, and lined with satin, smelling powerfully of some sweet perfume—violets. Mrs. Potts, being squat and of short stature, was lost in it. But the time when she was enveloped in a six-hundred-pound wrap was indisputably one of her happiest moments. There was a pocket inside, and in that pocket a dainty lace-edged handkerchief, which, I am sorry to say, Mrs. Potts felt called upon to confiscate as a souvenir.
It did not appear to be one of Mr. Wynne’s happiest moments, as he pulled on his great coat, and followed the daintily tripping, high-heeled steps of his visitor downstairs.