"You seem fetched," says his friend, directing a pale but feeling ray upon him through the beloved glass.
"I am, I confess it," says Mr. Bellair, effusively; "I adore her, and that's a fact: but she would not look at me. She's in love with her cousin,—Chesney, you know,—and they're to be married straight off the reel, next month, I think—or that."
"Hah!" says the friend. "She's good to look at, do you know, and rather uncommon style, in spite of her yellow hair. She's a ward of Chetwoode's, isn't she? Always heard he was awfully épris there."
By this time Lilian is crimson, and Archibald hardly less so, though he is distinctly conscious of a desire to laugh; Lilian's eyes are riveted on Sir Guy, who has grown very pale and has turned a frowning brow upon these luckless young men.
"Not a bit of it," says Mr. Bellair, "at least now. He was, I believe, but she bowled him over in a couple of months and laughed at him afterward. No, Chesney is the white-headed boy with her. Not that I see much in him myself," discontentedly.
"Sour-looking beggar," rejoins the friend, with kind sympathy.
It is growing tremendously jolly for the listeners. Lilian turns a pained, beseeching glance upon Archibald, who returns the glance, but declares by gesture his inability to do anything. He is still secretly amused, and not being able from his point of vantage to see Chetwoode, is scarcely as confused as Lilian. Should he now stir, and walk out of his place of concealment with Miss Chesney, he would only cover with shame the unsuspecting gossips and make two enemies for life, without doing any good.
Chetwoode is in the same condition, but though angry and bitterly stung by their words, hardly cares to resent them, being utterly unaware of Lilian's eyes, which are bent upon him. He waits impatiently for the moment when Mr. Bellair and his "fat friend" may choose to move on. Did he know who was so close to him, watching every expression of his face, impatience might have passed all bounds. As it is, a few chance remarks matter little to him.
But Mr. Bellair's friend has yet something else to say.
"Fine girl, Miss Beauchamp," says this youth, languidly; "immensely good form, and that. Looks like a goddess."