Far different was St. Josephs. If ever man exulted in bondage and seemed proud to rattle his chains, that man was the captive General. He never missed an opportunity of attending his conqueror: riding in the Park—"walking the Zoo"—waiting about at balls, drums, crush-rooms, and play-houses,—he never left her side.
Miss Douglas, loathing her own ingratitude, was weary of her life. Even Bill could not help remarking the pale cheeks, the heavy eyes, the dull lassitude of gait and bearing, that denoted the feverish unrest of one who is sick at heart.
He trod on a chaperone's skirt, and omitted to beg pardon; he stumbled against his uncle, the bishop, and forgot to ask after his aunt. So taken up was he with the faded looks of Miss Douglas, that he neither remembered where he was, nor why he came, and only recovered consciousness with the rustle of Mrs. Lushington's dress and her pleasant voice in his ear.
"Give me your arm," said she, pushing on through her guests, with many winning smiles, "and take me into the little room for some tea."
Though a short distance, it was a long passage. She had something pleasant to say to everybody, as she threaded the crowd; but it could be no difficult task for so experienced a campaigner, on her own ground, to take up any position she required. And Bill found himself established at last by her side, in a corner, where they were neither overlooked nor overheard.
"Now I want to know if it's true?" said she, dashing into the subject at once. "You can tell, if anybody can, and I'm sure you have no secrets from me."
"If what's true?" asked Bill, gulping tea that made him hotter than ever.
"Don't be stupid!" was her reply. "Why, about Daisy of course. Is he going to marry that Irish girl? I want to find out at once."
"Well, it's no use denying it," stammered Bill, somewhat unwillingly. "But it's a dead secret, Mrs. Lushington, and of course it goes no farther."
"Oh, of course!" she repeated. "Don't you know how safe I am? But you're quite sure of it? You have it from himself?"