"Oh, so you have remembered her name!" says his lordship, dryly.
Meantime, the concert has reasserted itself, and things once more are going on smoothly. The vicar, all smiles and sunshine, is going about accepting congratulations on all sides.
"Such a charming evening," says Mrs. Grey; "and such music! Really, London could not surpass it. And what a delicious face that girl has got—like Spring, or May, or—er——Morning, or that. I quite envy her to you. Now all my governesses are so unpleasant,—freckled, you know, or with a squint, or a crooked nose, or that. Some people have all the luck in this world," winds up Mrs. Grey, with a gentle sigh, who has ten thousand a year and no earthly care, and who always speaks in italics whenever she gets the slightest chance.
"So glad you are pleased," says the vicar, genially. "Yes, she is as beautiful as her voice. After all, I think the concert will prove a success."
"It has proved itself one," says Mrs. Grey, who adores the vicar, and would flirt with him if she dared. "But when do you fail in anything you undertake? Really, dear Mr. Redmond, you should not let the idea die out. You should give us a good time like this at least once in every month, and than see what delicious windows you could have. I for one"—coquettishly—"will promise to come to every one of them."
"At that rate, I should soon have no poor to look after," says the gratified vicar, gayly.
"And a good thing, too. The poor are always so oppressive, and—er—so dirty, but still"—seeing a change in his face—"very interesting,—very!"
And then the concert comes to an end, and adieux are said, and fresh congratulations poured out, so to speak, upon the Redmonds; and then every one goes home.
Dorian Branscombe climbs into his dog-cart, and drives swiftly homeward, under the glistening stars, whose "beauty makes unhappy,"—his mind filled with many thoughts.
"'My love, my pearl!'"—the words of Georgie's song haunt him incessantly, and ring their changes on his brain. "What words could be more appropriate, more suited to her?" (Alas, when we come to pronouns it is generally all over with us!) "A pearl! so fair! so pure! so solitary! It just expressed her. By what right has Fate cast that pretty child upon the cruel world to take her chance, to live or die in it?