Mrs. Merton had undertaken the duties that appertain to the "hissing urn." "You prefer coffee, Lord Vargrave? Caroline, my dear—"
Caroline passed the cup to Lord Vargrave, who looked at her hand as he took it—there was a ring on one of those slender fingers never observed there before. Their eyes met, and Caroline coloured. Lord Vargrave turned to Evelyn, who, pale as death, but tearless and speechless, sat beside her mother; he attempted in vain to draw her into conversation. Evelyn, who desired to restrain her feelings, would not trust herself to speak.
Mrs. Merton, ever undisturbed and placid, continued to talk on: to offer congratulations on the weather,—it was such a lovely day; and they should be off so early; it would be so well arranged,—they should be in such good time to dine at——-, and then go three stages after dinner; the moon would be up.
"But," said Lord Vargrave, "as I am to go with you as far as——-, where our roads separate, I hope I am not condemned to go alone, with my red box, two old newspapers, and the blue devils. Have pity on me."
"Perhaps you will take Grandmamma, then?" whispered Caroline, archly.
Lumley shrugged his shoulders, and replied in the same tone,—
"Yes,—provided you keep to the proverb, 'Les extremes se touchent,' and the lovely grandchild accompany the venerable grandmamma."
"What would Evelyn say?" retorted Caroline.
Lumley sighed, and made no answer.
Mrs. Merton, who had hung fire while her daughter was carrying on this "aside," now put in,—