“It made a wonderful difference having a girl in the house,” she remarked at least twice a day to “P.,” and “P.,” strange to say, received the well-worn observation without a sarcastic rejoinder.
Certainly Honor had made a change at Rookwood. She had prevailed on her aunt to allow her to cover the green rep drawing-room suite with pretty cretonne, to banish the round table with its circle of books dealt out like a pack of cards, to arrange flowers and grasses in profusion, and to have tea in the verandah. Honor played tennis capitally, and her uncle, instead of going to the club, inaugurated sets at home, and these afternoons began to have quite a reputation. There were good courts, good players—excellent refreshments. Mrs. Brande’s strawberries and rich yellow cream were renowned; and people were eager for standing invitations to Rookwood “Tuesdays” and “Saturdays.” Besides Mr. Brande and his niece—hosts in themselves—there were Sir Gloster, Mrs. Sladen, the Padré and his wife, and young Jervis, who were regular habitués. There were tournaments and prizes, and a briskness and “go” about these functions that made them the most popular entertainments in Shirani, and folk condescended to fish industriously for what they would once have scorned, viz.:—“invitations to Mother Brande’s afternoons.”
Captain Waring was tired of Shirani, though he had met many pals—played polo three times a week, and whist six times, until the small hours. Although invited out twice as much as any other bachelor, and twice as popular as his cousin, indeed he and his cousin—as he remarked with a roar of laughter—“were not in the same set.”
(Nor, for that matter, were Mrs. Langrishe and her niece in the same set; for Lalla was “theatrical” and her aunt was “smart.”)
Captain Waring and his companion lived together in Haddon Hall, with its world-wide reputation for smoking chimneys; but although they resided under the same roof, they saw but little of one another. Waring had the best rooms, an imposing staff of crest-emblazoned servants. Jervis lived in two small apartments, and the chief of his retinue was a respectable grey-bearded bearer, Jan Mahomed by name, who looked cheap. Jervis spent most of his time taking long walks or rides—shooting or sketching with some young fellows in the Scorpions—or up at Rookwood, where he dined at least thrice a week and spent all his Sundays, and where he had been warmly received by Ben, and adopted into the family as his “uncle”! No words, however many and eloquent, could more strongly indicate how highly he stood in Mr. and Mrs. Brande’s good graces. To be Ben’s “uncle” almost implied that they looked upon him as an adopted son.
Frequently days elapsed, and Clarence and his companion scarcely saw one another, save at polo. Mark kept early hours and was up betimes—indeed, occasionally he was up and dressed ere his cousin had gone to bed.
One afternoon, however, he found him evidently awaiting his arrival, sitting in the verandah, and not as usual at the club card-table.
“Hullo, Mark! what a gay young bird you are, always going out, always on the wing—never at home!”
“The same to you,” said the other cheerily.
“Well, I just wanted to see you and catch you for a few minutes, old chap. I’m getting beastly sick of this place—we have been here nearly six weeks—I vote, as the policeman says, we ‘move on.’”