“What could bring you to London at such a time?” she exclaimed severely, and introduced him as Mr Elliot, Mrs Ravenhill gathered that he came from the neighbourhood of Thorpe, and inspiration led her to see in him a supporter for Mr Wareham that evening, with the want of which her mind had been troubled. She asked him to dinner, as an acquaintance of Lady Fanny’s, and increasing pinkness did not prevent his absolutely leaping at the proposal. But when they had left him, Fanny fell upon her.
“What possessed you? The idea of being saddled with Mr Elliot! He will sit mute.”
“He might do worse. But I am not afraid. You will make him talk.”
“I? Not I! I have no patience with him. He is the most preposterous man!”
“Fanny, you’re not really vexed?” whispered Millie, as they went down the steps. Her friend darted a look at her. They had to fall into single file, and there was a rush for the train.
On a fine autumn afternoon there is no more delightful spot in London than the Tower. The great river flows by, alight with sunshine, crowded with life; and here as elsewhere, privilege leads to pleasant paths. They strolled where they pleased, and lingered. The river front held them long. Transforming sunshine softened stones and the old tragedies which clung to them; as for the green, it was so inviting a spot that Fanny declared it made her wish to be beheaded there. She flashed here and there in her most fitful mood. Millie could not make her out; she herself declared that the sun intoxicated her, yet once the other girl imagined that she caught a gleam of tears in the grey eyes, swept out of sight the next moment. Something was amiss. Perhaps she would rather go home. Millie did not dare put the question, but she flung out a rope.
“This tea? Must we go to it?”
“Must we! How soon may we? was in my mind,” said Fanny promptly. “Sympathy with Guy Fawkes has exhausted me, and my ideas drop greedily to the level of tea-cakes. Come, Mrs Ravenhill.”
No more suspicion of a tear. Millie, happy herself, believed she had been mistaken, and amused herself by watching how the young men of the party drifted to Fanny’s side. She flung sparkling sentences about, and told one or two stories with irresistible mimicry. The Tower was talked of, and the old traditions which are not permitted to live on, even there; history was compared to a captive balloon, kept floating before our eyes till a prick collapses it.
“More like an old picture, gaily painted over. We bring our turpentine and away flies the decorative colour, leaving truth dingy,” said Lady Fanny.