“Enjoy myself!” she exclaimed, “I was thinking all the time that my boots would be cut to pieces with the horrid gravel; and,” she continued, laying her head on the plush-covered back of her chair, and directing a laughing, propitiatory glance at her companion, “you know I had to talk twice as much to poor Tommy because you wouldn’t say a word to him. Besides, I knew him long before I knew you.”
“Oh, of course if you don’t mind being seen with a fellow that looks like a tailor’s apprentice, I have nothing to say against it,” replied Lambert, looking down on her, as he stood fingering his moustache, with one elbow on the chimney-piece. His eyes could not remain implacable when they dwelt on the face that was upturned to him, especially now, when he felt both in face and manner something of pathos and gentleness that was as new as it was intoxicating.
If he had known what it was that had changed her he might have been differently affected by it; as it was, he put it down to the wretchedness of life at Albatross Villa, and was glad of the adversity that was making things so much easier for him. His sulkiness melted away in spite of him; it was hard to be sulky, with Francie all to himself, pouring out his tea and talking to him with an intimateness that was just tipped with flirtation; in fact, as the moments slipped by, and the thought gripped him that the next day would find him alone at Rosemount, every instant of this last afternoon in her society became unspeakably precious. The tête-à-tête across the tea-table prolonged itself so engrossingly that Lambert forgot his wonted punctuality, and their attempt to catch the five o’clock train for Bray resulted in bringing them breathless to the station as their train steamed out of it.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Irish mail-boat was well up to time on that frosty thirty-first of December. She had crossed from Holyhead on an even keel, and when the Bailey light on the end of Howth had been sighted, the passengers began to think that they might risk congratulations on the clemency of the weather, and some of the hardier had ordered tea in the saloon, and were drinking it with incredulous enjoyment.
“I shall go mad, Pamela, perfectly mad, if you cannot think of any word for that tenth light. C and H—can’t you think of anything with C and H? I found out all the others in the train, and the least you might do is to think of this one for me. That dreadful woman snoring on the sofa just outside my berth put everything else out of my head.”
This plaint, uttered in a deep and lamentable contralto, naturally drew some attention towards Lady Dysart, as she swept down the saloon towards the end of the table, and Pamela, becoming aware that the lady referred to was among the audience, trod upon her mother’s dress and thus temporarily turned the conversation.
“C and H,” she repeated, “I’m afraid I can’t think of anything; the only word I can think of beginning with C is Christopher.”
“Christopher!” cried Lady Dysart, “why, Christopher ends with an R.”
As Lady Dysart for the second time pronounced her son’s name the young man who had just come below, and was having a whisky and soda at the bar at the end of the saloon, turned quickly round and put down his glass. Lady Dysart and her daughter were sitting with their backs to him, but Mr. Hawkins did not require a second glance, and made his way to them at once.