“To be sure; give me a call to-morrow,—let me see,—about two. Father Magrath won’t be at home,” said she, with a coquettish look.
“Where, pray, may I pay my respects?”
“No. 22 South Anne Street,—very respectable lodgings. I’ll write the address in your pocket-book.”
Power produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan wrote a few lines, saying, as she handed it:—
“There, now, don’t read it here before the people; they’ll think it mighty indelicate in me to make an appointment.”
Power pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss Macan’s carriage was announced.
Sir George Dashwood, who little flattered himself that his fair guest had any intention of departure, became now most considerately attentive, reminded her of the necessity of muffling against the night air, hoped she would escape cold, and wished her a most cordial good-night, with a promise of seeing her early the following day.
Notwithstanding Power’s ambition to engross the attention of the lady, Sir George himself saw her to her carriage, and only returned to the room as a group was collecting around the gallant captain, to whom he was relating some capital traits of his late conquest,—for such he dreamed she was.
“Doubt it who will,” said he, “she has invited me to call on her to-morrow, written her address on my card, told me the hour she is certain of being alone. See here!” At these words he pulled forth the card, and handed it to Lechmere.
Scarcely were the eyes of the other thrown upon the writing, when he said, “So, this isn’t it, Power.”