“And there speaks my darling girl,” said Claude.
CHAPTER VII.
THE stay in Venice had naturally curtailed for Mrs. Osborne the weeks of her London season, but she had never intended to begin entertaining on the scale required by the prodigious success of the fancy-dress ball last year till after Whitsuntide. Before leaving town in May she had sent out all invitations for the larger functions (except those which her invited guests subsequently asked for on behalf of their friends, and which she always granted), and it was clear that the world in general was going to pass a good deal of its time at No. 92. Indeed, when she went through her engagement book on her return from Venice to Grote, hospitable though she was, and greatly enjoying the exercise of that admirable virtue, she was rather appalled at the magnitude of what she had undertaken. She was going to give three balls (real balls), three concerts, two big dinner parties every week, and a series of week-ends down at Grote, while on such other nights as she was not dining out herself there were a series of little parties. In addition Sheffield friends coming to stay with them for the insides of weeks to finish up with one of the Grote week-ends. These visits she looked forward to with peculiarly pleasant anticipations, for the dear soul could not but feel an intense and secret gratification at the thought of such local celebrities as Sir Thomas and the Prices seeing her and Mr. O. absolutely at the top of the tree, and entertaining princes and duchesses and what not just as they had entertained aldermen and manufacturers at Sheffield. Also there was a secret that Mr. Osborne had told her, which filled her with feelings that were almost too solemn to be glee. The secret was not to be talked about yet, but in private he no longer called her Mrs. O., but “my lady.” She hoped Sir Thomas would be with them when the honours were published, for secretly she still took her bearings, so to speak, by the stars as they appeared in Sheffield. There Sir Thomas Ewart, Bart., and Lady had been the very Pole-star to which quite important constellations reverently pointed. But now, as by some new and wonderful telescope, she saw herself and Mr. O. high above Sir Thomas. Why, even Per would be the Honourable Per, and Sir Thomas would have to say, “After you, Per, my boy.” She and Mr. O. had already had more than one broken night in thinking of a title which he could submit for approval. Mrs. Osborne was all for something old and territorial.
“There’s Hurstmonceaux, my dear,” she said, “that ruined old castle which we drove over to see when you was down at Hastings with your attack of gout. I don’t doubt you could buy it for a song, and there you’ll be.”
“And then next you’d be wanting me to do up the Castle and live in it,” said he. “Besides, it’s a regular stumper to say, and French at that. No, my dear, we must think of something more British than that; there’s plenty of good names without crossing the Channel, so to speak, for something to call yourself by. But it’s puzzling work, and new to me, to have to think of christening yourself afresh.”
“Lor’, Mr. Osborne, you don’t mean to say that you’ve got to change your Christian name, too?”
“No, no, my dear. There’s no Christian name to bother about; I don’t deal any more in Christian names—not officially, anyhow.”
He blew out the light.
“Good night, my dear,” he said. “And God bless you.”
It was all very well to say “Good night,” but Mrs. Osborne could no more sleep than she could think of a name. After an interval she heard Mr. Osborne turn himself ponderously round in his bed, and knew that he was awake too.