“Time enough to tie yourself up with promises after you are married! Take your fling now—you have only ten days—you’ll never dance again.”
“No, never,” she groaned.
“He is away, too,” urged this wicked youth; “he is not coming up till Saturday; he won’t know, till all is over, and then he will be as proud as a peacock. You have your dresses, you had everything ready until he came and spoilt the whole ‘box of tricks.’” And Toby looked unutterable things. “Did he say anything to your aunt?” he asked.
“No—not a word. You don’t suppose that I allow her to mix herself up in my affairs? It was merely between him and me——”
“Well, you can easily smooth him down—and if you don’t take your own original part, I must send round a peon this afternoon, to say that the burlesque has been put off, owing to the illness of the prima-donna—the ‘incapability’ is the proper word. But you are a brick, and you won’t let it come to that; you will never leave us in a hole.”
A little dancing devil in each eye eagerly assured him that she would not fail them! Yes, the combined entreaties of her own set—their compliments and flattery—her own hungry craving for what Toby called “one last fling,” carried the point. He would not be back until Saturday. The piece was for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and she could (as she believed) easily talk him over. Yes, she made up her mind that she would play the peri; and she informed her aunt, with her most off-hand air, “that she had been prevailed on to take the principal part; that Miss Lane was ill (and any way would have been a dead failure); that she could not be so shamefully selfish as to disappoint every one; that the proceeds were for a charity (after the bills were paid there would not be much margin)”, and Mrs. Langrishe, in sublime ignorance of Lalla’s promise, acquiesced as usual. She now subscribed to all her niece’s suggestions with surprising amiability, assuring herself that the days of her deliverance from “a girl in a thousand” were close at hand!
The burlesque of Sinbad was beautifully staged, capitally acted, and a complete success. Miss Paske’s dancing and singing were pronounced to be worthy of a London theatre—if not of a music-hall. People discussed her wherever they met, and all the men hastened, as it were in a body, to book places for the next performance.
The ladies were not altogether so enthusiastic; indeed, some of them were heard to wonder how Sir Gloster would have liked it?
Sir Gloster, on the wings of love, was already half way through his return journey. He had transacted his business with unexpected promptitude, and was breakfasting at a certain dâk bungalow, encompassed with many parcels and boxes. Here he was joined by two subalterns, who were hurrying in the opposite direction—that is, from Shirani to the plains. They were full of the last evening’s entertainment, and could talk of nothing but the burlesque.
“It was quite A1,” they assured their fellow-traveller. “It could not be beaten in London—no, not even at the Empire. Miss Paske was simply ripping!”