Jack’s appetite was always good, in love or out of it, and this evening would have been the happiest in his life but for certain twinges of conscience.
What should he say to Leonard, the faithful friend, when he got home and was asked how he had parted from Una? However, he stifled conscience—it is always easy to do that at dinner time.
“Will you have some more claret?” asked Mrs. Davenant, as she and Una prepared to leave him. “You can smoke a cigarette, if you like; but open the window afterward.”
“I won’t have any more claret, and I won’t smoke,” said Jack. “I’ll just finish this glass and come with you for a cup of tea.”
Five minutes of solitude spent in going over every look and word of the lovely creature he had won, were enough for Jack.
He found them seated at the window; Una in a low chair, almost at Mrs. Davenant’s feet. They both looked up, as if glad to see him; and Mrs. Davenant at once rang for tea and coffee.
Una rose, and officiated with calm self-possession and accustomed ease—no one would have guessed that her acquaintance with a London drawing-room, and its accompanying forms and ceremonies, was only that of a few weeks—and brought Jack his cup.
In taking it, he tried to touch her hand, and nearly upset the cup.
“Take care, my dear Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant. “Has he spoiled your dress, my dear?”
“No,” said Una, her face red as a rose. “It was my fault.”