“What a blaze of light to throw over a sorry picture!” said he, dangling his eyeglass, and playing that part of middle-aged Cupid he was so fond of assuming.
“Do you know, sir,” said Lady Cobham, coming hastily towards him, “that I will not permit you to turn the heads of my young ladies? Dr. Dill is already so afraid of your fascinations that he has ordered his carriage,—is it not so?” she went on appealing to the doctor, with increased rapidity. “But you will certainly keep your promise to us. We shall expect you on Thursday at dinner.”
Overwhelmed with confusion, Dill answered—he knew not what—about pleasure, punctuality, and so forth; and then turned away to ring for that carriage he had not ordered before.
“And so you tell me Barrington is better?” said the Admiral, taking him by the arm and leading him away. “The danger is over, then?”
“I believe so; his mind is calm, and he is only suffering now from debility. What with the Assizes, and a week's dissipation at Kilkenny, and this shock,—for it was a shock,—the whole thing was far more of a mental than a bodily ailment.”
“You gave him my message? You said how anxious I felt to know if I could be of any use to him?”
“Yes; and he charged Mr. Withering to come and thank you, for he is passing by Cobham to-morrow on his way to Kilkenny.”
“Indeed! Georgiana, don't forget that. Withering will call here to-morrow; try and keep him to dine, at least, if we cannot secure him for longer. He's one of those fellows I am always delighted to meet Where are you going, Dill? Not taking your daughter away at this hour, are you?”
The doctor sighed, and muttered something about dissipations that were only too fascinating, too engrossing. He did not exactly like to say that his passports had been sent him, and the authorities duly instructed to give him “every aid and assistance possible.” For a moment, indeed, Polly looked as though she would make some explanation of the matter; but it was only for a moment, and the slight flush on her cheek gave way quickly, and she looked somewhat paler than her wont. Meanwhile, the little Poet had fetched her shawl, and led her away, humming, “Buona notte,—buona sera!” as he went, in that half-caressing, half-quizzing way he could assume so jauntily. Stapylton walked behind with the doctor, and whispered as he went, “If not inconvenient, might I ask the favor of a few minutes with you to-morrow?”
Dill assured him he was devotedly his servant; and having fixed the interview for two o'clock, away they drove. The night was calm and starlight, and they had long passed beyond the grounds of Cobham, and were full two miles on their road before a word was uttered by either.