Miss Corkran paid scant attention to these memories, being wholly occupied with observing the demeanour of Mr. Hawkins, who was holding Miss Mullen in conversation. Charlotte’s big, pale face had an intellectuality and power about it that would have made her conspicuous in a gathering more distinguished than the present, and even Mr. Hawkins felt something like awe of her, and said to himself that she would know how to make it hot for him if she chose to cut up rough about the launch business.
As he reflected on that escapade he felt that he would have given a good round sum of money that it had not taken place. He had played the fool in his usual way, and now it didn’t seem fair to back out of it. That, at all events, was the reason he gave to himself for coming to this blooming menagerie, as he inwardly termed Mrs. Beattie’s highest social effort; it wouldn’t do to chuck the whole thing up all of a sudden, even though, of course, the little girl knew as well as he did that it was all nothing but a lark. This was pretty much the substance of the excuses that he had offered to Captain Cursiter; and they had seemed so successful at the time that he now soothed his guilty conscience with a rechauffé of them, while he slowly and conversationally made his way round the room towards the green rep sofa in the corner, whereon sat Miss Fitzpatrick, looking charming things at Mr. Corkran, judging, at least, by the smile that displayed the reverend gentleman’s prominent teeth to such advantage. Hawkins kept on looking at her over the shoulder of the Miss Beattie to whom he was talking, and with each glance he thought her looking more and more lovely. Prudence melted in a feverish longing to be near her again, and the direction of his wandering eye became at length so apparent that Miss Carrie afterwards told her sister that “Mr. Hawkins was fearfully gone about Francie Fitzpatrick—oh, the tender looks he cast at her!”
Mrs. Beattie’s entertainments always began with music, and the recognised musicians of Lismoyle were now contributing his or her share in accustomed succession. Hawkins waited until the time came for Mr. Corkran to exhibit his wiry bass, and then definitely took up his position on the green sofa. When he had first come into the room their eyes had met with a thrilling sense of understanding, and since then Francie had felt rather than seen his steady and diplomatic advance in her direction. But somehow, now that he was beside her, they seemed to find little to say to each other.
“I suppose they’re all talking about our running aground yesterday,” he said at last in a low voice. “Does she know anything about it yet?” indicating Miss Mullen with a scarcely perceptible turn of his eye.
“No,” replied Francie in the same lowered voice; “but she will before the evening’s out. Everyone’s quizzing me about it.” She looked at him anxiously as she spoke, and his light eyebrows met in a frown.
“Confound their cheek!” he said angrily; “why don’t you shut them up?”
“I don’t know what to say to them. They only roar laughing at me, and say I’m not born to be drowned anyway.”
“Look here,” said Hawkins impatiently, “what do they do at these shows? Have we got to sit here all the evening?”
“Hush! Look at Charlotte looking at you, and that’s Carrie Beattie just in front of us.”
“I didn’t come here to be wedged into a corner of this little beastly hole all the evening,” he answered rebelliously; “can’t we get out to the stairs or the garden or something?”