‘What is all this, Symmons? Why did you not drive home?’
‘Your Grace forgets that Mr. Annesley and some gentlemen sup with your Grace to-night at the Alhambra.’
‘Impossible! Drive home.’
‘Your Grace perhaps forgets that your Grace is expected?’ said the experienced servant, who knew when to urge a master, who, to-morrow, might blame him for permitting his caprice.
‘What am I to do? Stay here. I will run upstairs, and put them off.’
He ran up into the crush-room. The opera was just over, and some parties who were not staying the ballet, had already assembled there. As he passed along he was stopped by Lady Fitz-pompey, who would not let such a capital opportunity escape of exhibiting Caroline and the young Duke together.
‘Mr. Bulkley,’ said her Ladyship, ‘there must be something wrong about the carriage.’ An experienced, middle-aged gentleman, who jobbed on in society by being always ready and knowing his cue, resigned the arm of Lady Caroline St. Maurice and disappeared.
‘George,’ said Lady Fitz-pompey, ‘give your arm to Carry just for one moment.’
If it had been anybody but his cousin, the Duke would easily have escaped; but Caroline he invariably treated with marked regard; perhaps because his conscience occasionally reproached him that he had not treated her with a stronger feeling. At this moment, too, she was the only being in the world, save one, whom he could remember with satisfaction: he felt that he loved her most affectionately, but somehow she did not inspire him with those peculiar feelings which thrilled his heart at the recollection of May Dacre.
In this mood he offered an arm, which was accepted; but he could not in a moment assume the tone of mind befitting his situation and the scene. He was silent; for him a remarkable circumstance.