"But people don't get City information or talk to each other on what you call 'stagging' topics at Botanical Fêtes. Why did he bring him here?"
"O impetuous youth, 'still harping on my daughter!' don't you see that there must be a quid pro quo? If Mr. Streightley is to assist Mr. Guyon, why should not Mr. Guyon show Mr. Streightley the elevated position which he holds, the society in which he moves?"
"Yes, that's all very well; but I say, Charley, Streightley don't know Mrs. Tresillian, does he?"
"Who's Mrs. Tresillian?"
"The wife of the member for Penmouth; people who live at Rutland Gate, and entertain perpetually. He's not likely to be going there to-night, this Streightley, is he?"
"No more than he's likely to be going to Kamschatka; not so likely. Why?"
"O, nothing; only Miss Guyon is going there--and so am I."
"Is Miss Guyon going? Ah, well, I hope you'll enjoy yourself."
And during their ride to chambers in the hansom, both men were singularly silent.
Mr. Streightley had plenty of time to make himself acquainted with the features of the private friends and the public celebrities who were enshrined in Miss Guyon's photographic album; with the views of the Rhine and the Moselle; with the cards of callers "lurking within the bowl;" with the tastefully-arranged flowers and their elegant basket; with the paper-knife, like a golden dagger; with Gustave Doré's latest sketches; and with all the innumerable nicknacks of a lady's table. Miss Guyon had gone straight to her room; and Mr. Guyon, begging to be excused, as he had a few little matters of business, had retired into what he called his "study,"--a very gloomy little den behind the dining-room, furnished with a battered leather writing-table, a cane-bottomed chair, a grim bust of a deceased friend powdered with "blacks," a boot-jack, a clothes-brush, a glass-case of stuffed birds, and the Court Guide for 1850. Streightley had been shown, at Mr. Guyon's suggestion, into a spare bedroom, where he had performed a brief toilet, and then mooned about the drawing-room, occupying himself in the manner just described. Mr. Guyon was the first to break in on his solitude; and shortly afterwards Miss Guyon entered the room, looking so lovely that Robert Streightley remained spell-bound, and could not take his eyes from her. She wore a pale mauve-silk dress, with soft tulle half-way over it, looped up with real Cape jasmine, a tiny bouquet of the same flower in her bosom; and her hair gave her a certain air of peculiarity, and shed around her a subtle and intoxicating perfume. Round her neck she wore a string of pearls with a diamond clasp; and the same on each arm completed her jewelry. Looking at her, Robert Streightley seemed to lose his identity, and to become part and portion of some fairy story which he had read, some picture of moyen-âge pageant which he had seen. Women? Yes, he had known women before--his mother, Ellen, Hester Gould. What had they in common with this soft, delicate, queenly creature, the touch of whose hand on his arm thrilled him to the bone, the sound of whose voice sent the blood rushing to his heart, the glance of whose eye--light, fleeting, and uninterested though it was--he would have purchased at the price of a king's ransom.