Opening the door with praiseworthy carefulness, he says, in the meekest and most sympathetic voice possible:
"I hope your headache is better, Lady Chetwoode?"
By this time he has his head quite inside the door, and becomes pleasantly conscious that there is something festive in the air within. The properly lachrymose expression he has assumed vanishes as if by magic, while his usual debonair smile returns to his lips.
"Oh, I say—then it was all a swindle on the part of Hardy, was it?" he asks. "Dear Lady Chetwoode, it makes me feel positively young again to see you looking so well. Your woman hinted to me you were at the point of death."
"Come in, Taffy. You too shall hear what has revived me," says her ladyship, smiling, and thereupon unfolds her tale to him, over which he beams, and looks blessings on all around.
"I knew it," he says; "could have told everybody all about it months ago! couldn't I, Lil? Remember the day I bet you a fiver he would propose to you in six months?"
"I remember nothing of the kind," says Miss Chesney, horribly shocked. "Taffy, how can you say such a thing?"
"Tell us all about it, Taffy," entreats Cyril, languidly, from the depths of an arm-chair. "I feel so done up with all I have gone through this morning, that I long for a wholesome exciting little tale to rouse me a bit. Go on."
"Oh, it was only that day at Mrs. Boileau's last autumn," begins Taffy.
"Taffy, I desire you to be silent," says Lilian, going up to him and looking very determined. "Do not attempt to speak when I tell you not to do so."