‘I hope after tea you will be so kind as to touch the guitar.’
Signals of great distress.
‘Were you ever at Birmingham?’
‘Yes:’ a sigh.
‘What a splendid music-hall! They should build one at Manchester.’
‘They ought,’ in a whisper.
The tea-tray was removed; Coningsby was conversing with Mr. Millbank, who was asking him questions about his son; what he thought of Oxford; what he thought of Oriel; should himself have preferred Cambridge; but had consulted a friend, an Oriel man, who had a great opinion of Oriel; and Oswald’s name had been entered some years back. He rather regretted it now; but the thing was done. Coningsby, remembering the promise of the guitar, turned round to claim its fulfilment, but the singer had made her escape. Time elapsed, and no Miss Millbank reappeared. Coningsby looked at his watch; he had to go three miles to the train, which started, as his friend of the previous night would phrase it, at 9.45.
‘I should be happy if you remained with us,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘but as you say it is out of your power, in this age of punctual travelling a host is bound to speed the parting guest. The carriage is ready for you.’
‘Farewell, then, sir. You must make my adieux to Miss Millbank, and accept my thanks for your great kindness.’
‘Farewell, Mr. Coningsby,’ said his host, taking his hand, which he retained for a moment, as if he would say more. Then leaving it, he repeated with a somewhat wandering air, and in a voice of emotion, ‘Farewell, farewell, Mr. Coningsby.’