“Indeed!” was the reply; “what a clever fellow you are! I certainly owe Coverdale one, for his manner to me just now was anything but nice. Tell me, what have you discovered?”
“Well, it seems nothing very remarkable at first; but many a large and goodly oak has grown from as small an acorn. Listen—the immaculate Harry Coverdale has a private understanding with that dark-eyed gipsy, Arabella Crofton; they are a great deal more intimate and confidential in a tête-à-tête, than they allow themselves to appear in general society. I must try and learn what passed between them in Italy, and I think I can do so with very little trouble. I saw a man in town yesterday, Archie Campbell, who married one of the Muir girls, with whom the fair—or rather the dark—Arabella lived as governess, when they tried to exchange their Scotch brogue for the lingua Toscana. She went to Italy with them, and there met Harry Coverdale—that I know as a fact; for additional particulars, I shall apply to the said Archie.”
“Then do you think—do you conceive—do you mean to imply, in fact, that Mr. Coverdale is attached to this Miss Crofton?” stammered Lord Alfred, colouring, as though he, and not Alice’s husband, were the supposed delinquent.
“You always put things into such plain words, mon cher; it is a foolish habit, and the sooner you can divest yourself of it the better,” was D’Almayne’s reply; “probably the mighty Nimrod, in flirting with Miss Crofton, means no more harm than you do by your Platonic attachment for his pretty wife. Nevertheless, if such should prove the fact, and you gently insinuate the same to la belle Alice, the chances are that she will be kinder than ever, to evince her gratitude for your having rendered her jealous of her husband—not that you seem to require any help—I saw where that rosebud came from, coquin; but now you may, if you will, render me a service; find your way to the entrance-gate, and wait till my friend, Monsieur Guillemard, makes his appearance—probably you will find him waiting there already—and having discovered him, bring him here.”
As the obedient lordling strolled away on his mission, the indefatigable Horace gathered a rose; then approaching Kate Crane, he lisped in his most dreamy and affected style—
“I’ve been searching everywhere to find a rose of that peculiar tint which might harmonise and yet contrast well with your dress; at length, I am charmed to say my efforts have been successful. Mr. Crane, will you favour me by presenting this rose to Madame? Coming through your hands, I feel sure it will be accepted.”
“No, positively; that is, really it will be much more fitting—if I may be allowed to say so—that, as you have been so obliging as to find it, you should yourself present it. Mrs. Crane will, I feel convinced, be happy to acknowledge your politeness, by accepting a flower offered—if I may be permitted to say so—with such propriety and respect.”
D’Almayne appeared about to avail himself of the permission which Mr. Crane thus graciously accorded him; when suddenly drawing back, he exclaimed, “Excuse me one minute; the thorns are so very sharp, I am afraid to hand it to you without some protection against them;”—then, taking a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket, he wound it round the stem of the flower, and fixing his eyes with a meaning look on those of Kate, he gave her the rose. Having done so, he began talking to Mr. Crane; and soon contrived, by a judicious selection of topics, chiefly connected with the Stock Exchange, to engross that zealous Mammonite’s attention. As soon as his wife perceived this to be the case, she unrolled the paper from the stem of the rose, and, glancing at it hastily, perceived the following words written in Horace D’Almayne’s neat hand: “Give me five minutes’ conversation—I will make the opportunity, if you will avail yourself of it.” Instantly crushing it in her hand, she rushed into conversation with Arabella Crofton, on the merits and demerits of certain new annuals; which subject, skilfully managed, lasted her until Lord Alfred Courtland returned, arm in arm with Monsieur Guillemard, better got up, more jaunty, and in yellower kid gloves than ever. This vivacious foreigner was instantly captured by Horace, and desired to explain, “as he alone could do,” the peculiar advantages of that famous investment in Terra Cotta preference bonds, as Mr. Crane had an odd £10,000 lying comparatively fallow—only at three-and-a-half per cent—which he would be glad to put out well. So, foolish avarice and clever roguery ambled off together. Then D’Almayne contrived to dispatch Coverdale and his wife to look at a wonderful specimen of the Hypothetica Screamans, and to saddle Lord Alfred with Arabella Crofton, although that smitten young aristocrat would have preferred to have trotted mildly about after Alice, like a pet lamb. Having disposed of these supernumeraries, he as a matter of course offered his arm to Kate, who had quietly acquiesced in his arrangements, and followed at such a judicious distance that, although they still belonged to the party, in effect they enjoyed all the advantages of a tête-à-tête.
D’Almayne was the first to break silence. “This is most kind,” he said, “and leads me to hope that you are at length beginning to understand me—to perceive that my only wish is to act the part of a true friend towards you. I have a conviction that I owe a duty to you, for I often reflect with pain how large a share I had in bringing about your marriage.”
At these words Kate gave a slight start, and her colour deepened: not appearing to observe these signs of agitation, her companion resumed: