“I thought you were at Brighton, Lady Bell,” he said, as he shook hands.
“So I was—three hours ago. I came away suddenly; got tired and bored of it before I had been there three days. If there is one place more unendurable than another it is the fashionable watering-place. I bore it until this morning, and then poor Mrs. Fellowes and I made a bolt of it, or rather I bolted and dragged her with me. I left Lord Dalrymple and Sir Arkroyd in happy unconsciousness of our desertion.”
“Then, at this moment, they are wandering about the Parade in despair,” said Jack, laughing. And, as he laughed, he looked from one girl to the other, making a mental comparison. Yes, Lady Bell was beautiful, with a beauty undeniable and palpable, but how it paled and grew commonplace beside Una’s fresh, spiritual loveliness.
He had held her hand for a moment when he entered, and now, as he carried the tea cup, he got an opportunity of touching her arm, lovingly, caressingly.
He longed to take her by the hand and say to Lady Bell:
“This is my future wife, Lady Bell,” but he remembered Stephen’s advice, and was on his guard, so much so that though she watched them closely, Lady Bell saw no sign of the existing state of things.
It was singular, but since Jack’s arrival she did not seem at all bored or worried, but rattled on in her gayest mood.
“And what have you been doing since I left town?” she asked Una. “I hope Mr. Newcombe has made himself useful and attentive;” and she looked at Jack, who nodded coolly enough, though Una’s face crimsoned.
“Yes, I’ve been doing the knight errant, Lady Bell. Mrs. Davenant and I are old friends—relations, indeed.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lady Bell. “I hear your son, Mr. Stephen, is in London.”