“Poetry.”
“I’m tired of poetry.”
“Music.”
“Too much music is dreary. I heard such a lot in London.”
“Then you must love scandal.”
“Ah, that is a hint that my dear aunt can amuse me.”
“Maurice!” said Eunice, with a frown.
“Now don’t be angry, my dear cousin. Talking scandal is a very harmless occupation, and, as the Rector seems interested, I think I will go and hear the latest story of Belgravia. But, Crispin, I wish you would take my cousin on to the terrace—the sky is worth looking at with moon and clouds.”
Crispin darted a look of gratitude at him, and Maurice, delighted at thus foiling his aunt’s schemes, went off to hear that lady’s conversation.
The two lovers at the piano were afraid to move for a time, lest they should attract Mrs. Dengelton’s attention, and thus be stopped from leaving the room; but when they saw her deep in conversation with the two gentlemen, they stole quietly to the French window at the end of the room, through which they speedily gained the terrace.