I'm downright dizzy with the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet."—W. J. Mickle.
It is the most important day of all the three hundred and sixty-five, at least to Lilian, because it will bring her Taffy. Just before dinner he will arrive, not sooner, and it is now only half-past four.
All at Chetwoode are met in the library. The perfume of tea is on the air; the click of Lady Chetwoode's needles keeps time to the conversation that is buzzing all round.
Miss Beauchamp, serene and immovable as ever, is presiding over the silver and china, while Lilian, wild with spirits, and half mad with excitement and expectation, is chattering with Cyril upon a distant sofa.
Sir Guy, upon the hearthrug, is expressing his contempt for the views entertained by a certain periodical on the subject of a famous military scandal, in real parliamentary language, and Florence is meekly agreeing with him straight through. Never was any one (seemingly) so thoroughly en rapport with another as Florence with Sir Guy. Her amiable and rather palpable determination to second his ideas on all matters, her "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," when in his company, would, if recited, fill a volume in themselves. But I don't deny it would be a very stupid volume, from the same to the same: so I suppress it.
"Sir Guy," says Lilian, suddenly, "don't look so stern and don't stand with one hand in your breast, and one foot advanced, as though you were going to address the House."
"Well, but he is going to address the House," says Cyril, reprovingly: "we are all here, aren't we?"
"It is perfectly preposterous," says Guy, who is heated with his argument, and scarcely hears what is going on around him, so great is his righteous indignation. "If being of high birth is a reason why one must be dragged into notoriety, one would almost wish one was born a——"