“Well, I do look well—devilish well to-day,” said Sir Arthur to the baronet in the glass. “I don’t think I ever saw myself look better. Handsome—when I say handsome, I mean quite a butcher. Miss Candituft,” cried Sir Arthur, suddenly startled by the vision.
“I didn’t speak! I didn’t say a word—did I?” cried Hodmadod. “I don’t think I spoke. Eh?”
“Not a word,” answered the lady; “not a syllable; it was only ‘the mind, the music breathing from his face.’ What a shame it is you should be so handsome, Sir Arthur. Really, you go in great danger. You’ll be carried off by some band of desperate women, and afterwards raffled for; you’ll be married some day in spite of your screams. By the way, Sir Arthur,”—and Caroline fixed the baronet with her cold, full look—“What brings you here?”
“Oh, friendship. That is, when I say friendship, I”—
“Yes; the old meaning. Well, you always had an admirable taste, Sir Arthur. I must say that; an admirable taste, even before your looking-glass. Dear me!”—and she suddenly rose and crossed to the window—“quite a garden here. Well, I have often wondered what fools flowers were, to grow in London: I mean—but Sir Arthur, of course, you know what I mean.” And saying this, Miss Candituft stept upon the verandah; and for a time, there is no doubt of it, divided her admiration between flowers and music; the geraniums about her, and a barrel organ below her.
The next minute, and Agatha returned with even a deeper flush in her face—with a more vivacious sparkle in her eye—with a quicker tremor in her voice. To be made love to by a baronet! For the suspicion had, during her long absence, strengthened into assurance. Great had been her growth of heart, large her addition of knowledge, in the few minutes employed to pass to her room, and to bring together every kind of imaginable anodyne; every sort of balsamic remedy.
“My dear Miss Agatha,” cried Hodmadod pretty loudly, that Miss Candituft might have the fullest benefit of his intonation; “my dear lady, I blush for this trouble: when I say, I blush I—I really don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t name it, Sir Arthur. I couldn’t disturb mamma; still I—I wish I had, for upon my word and honour, I don’t know what to do. Oh dear! it is very bad,” and again Agatha glanced at the baronet’s abraded hand.
“Dear me! This is the thing—the very thing,” and Hodmadod took up a card of court-plaister; a healing substance so very rare, and requiring such nice wisdom to prescribe it, that of course the baronet had never thought of the remedy until produced by the anxious maid before him.
“Well, Sir Arthur, I thought that possibly might do: dear me! why didn’t you think of it before? What you must have suffered!” said Agatha with thoughts of pain distressing her pretty face.