He receives me as I totter feebly forward, and lays me on my couch with the utmost tenderness and a good deal of trepidation.
Then he rings the bell, and as the man enters, gives the order for the wine in the old clear quick voice, that seems to me to belong so entirely to Strangemore as to be out of place in this other home.
Not until I am quite recovered, and apparently little the worse for my faintness, does he take his leave. Gently kissing my hands, with the assurance that he will be back again with the friends I have expressed a wish for, on the coming Sabbath, he quits the house as quietly as he entered it.
On the Sunday, about the middle of the day, Harriet and Bebe arrive. Dora and George Ashurst follow them in time for dinner. I can see they are all more or less shocked at the changes that have taken place in my appearance, though they refrain from saying so.
Bebe lays herself out to amuse and arouse me by retailing to my languid ears all the most secret gossip and raciest pieces of scandal from the London world, bit by bit, as it occurs to her.
Lord Harry has been at P—- again, and was well received there in spite of all that has come and gone. Lord Augustus was jilted by Miss Glanville. George Brooks found the air of Monaco didn't agree with him, and was obliged to exchange into another and less desirable regiment, to see what time and India would do for him. The Duke has made a wretched match in the eyes of the world. But she is awfully good to look at, and he appears provoking contented and happy.
"And he really should not do that, you know," says Bebe; "it isn't good form to be in such high spirits with the tide of popular opinion so dead against you. To see them in the theatre is immense fun (I don't believe she ever saw one until she married him and came to town), he sitting beside her and explaining everything, she all big eyes and pleasurable excitement. His delight in her delight is quite pretty."
Lady Blanche Going has had measles, much to her own disgust and Bebe's enjoyment.
"And how is Chandos?" I ask, presently.
"How can I tell you, my dear, when I see so little of him? He has been making a grand tour somewhere, and 'raking up old bones,' we hear; but the 'where' is wrapped in mystery—Jericho, most probably; it would just suit his dismal disposition."