"I wish you'd come, Daisy. You've no idea what it is, facing all those swells by oneself!"
"I have not the cheek," was Daisy's reply. "They would chaff one so awfully, if they knew. No, Bill, I'll see you through anything but that."
"Then I must show the best front I can without a support," said the other ruefully. "Why can't she let me off these tea-fights? They're cruelly slow. I don't see the good of them."
"She does," replied Daisy. "Not a woman in London knows what she is about better than Mrs. Lushington."
"How d'ye mean?" asked his less worldly-minded friend.
"Why, you see," explained Daisy, "one great advantage of living in this wicked town is, that you've no duty towards your neighbour. People don't care two straws what you do, or how you do it, so long as you keep your own line, without crossing theirs. They'll give you the best of everything, and ask for no return, if only you'll pretend to be glad to see them when you meet, and not forget them when you go away. That's the secret of morning visits, card-leaving, wedding-presents, and the whole of the sham. Now Mrs. Lushington goes everywhere, and never has a ball, nor a drum, nor even a large dinner-party of her own, but she says to her friends, 'I love you dearly, I can't exist without you. Come and see me every Wednesday, except the Derby Day, all the London season through, from five to seven P.M. I'll swear to be at home, and I'll give you a cup of tea!' So, for nine pen'orth of milk, and some hot water, she repays the hospitalities of a nation. She's pleased, the world is gratified, and nobody's bored but you. It's all humbug, that's the truth, and I'm very glad I'm so soon to be out of it!"
"But you won't leave the Regiment?" said his brother officer kindly.
"Not if I know it!" was the hearty response. "Norah likes soldiering, and old Macormac doesn't care what we do, if we only visit him in the hunting season. Besides, my uncle put that in the conditions when he 'parted,' which he did freely enough, I am bound to admit, considering all things."
"You've not been long about it," observed Soldier Bill in a tone of admiration. "It's little more than a month since you pulled through after that 'facer' at Punchestown; and now, here you are booked to one lady, after proposing to another, provided with settlements, trousseau, bridesmaids, and very likely a bishop to marry you. Hang it, Daisy, I've got an uncle smothered in lawn; I'll give him the straight tip, and ask him to tie you up fast."
"You'll have to leave the Park at once," was Daisy's reply, "or you'll be returned absent when the parade is formed. You know, Bill, you daren't be late, for your life."