St. Josephs got himself up with extreme care on the evening in question. He was no faded petit maître, no wrinkled dandy, curled, padded, girthed, and tottering in polished boots towards his grave. On the contrary, he had the wisdom to grow old gracefully, as far as dress and deportment were concerned, rather advancing than putting back the hand of time. Yet to-night he did regret the lines on his worn face, the bald place at the crown of his head. Ten years, he thought, rather bitterly, only give him back ten years, and he could have held his own with the best of them! She might have cared for him ten years ago. Could she care for him now? Yes, surely she must, he loved her so!
"Your brougham is at the door, sir," said his servant, once a soldier, like himself, a person of calm temperament and a certain grim humour, whose private opinion it was that his master had of late been conducting himself like an old fool.
The General got into his carriage with an abstracted air, and was driven off to dine nervously and without appetite at the Senior United.
How flabby seemed the fish, how tasteless the cutlets, how insufferably prosy the conversation of an old comrade at the next table—a jovial veteran, who loved highly-seasoned stories, and could still drink the quantum he was pleased to call his "whack of Port." Never before had this worthy's discourse seemed so idiotic, his stomach so obtrusive, his chuckles so fatuous and inane. What did he mean by talking about "fellows of our age" to St. Josephs, who was seven years his junior in the Army List, and five in his baptismal register? Why couldn't he eat without wheezing, laugh without coughing; and why, oh! why could he not give a comrade greeting, without slapping him on the back? St. Josephs, drinking scalding coffee before the other arrived at cheese, felt his sense of approaching relief damped by remorse for the reserve and coldness with which he treated his old, tried friend. Something whispered to him, even then, how the jolly gormandising red face would turn to him, true and hearty, when all the love of all the women in London had faded and grown cold.
Nevertheless, at the doors of the theatre his pulses leapt with delight. So well timed was his arrival, that Mrs. Lushington and Miss Douglas were getting out of their carriage when his own stopped. Pleased, eager as a boy, he entered the house with Satanella on his arm, placing himself between that Lady and her friend, while he arranged shawls, foot-stools, scent-bottles, and procured for them programmes of the entertainment; chary, indeed, of information, but smelling strong of musk.
Need I say that he addressed himself at first to Mrs. Lushington? or that, perceiving a vacant stall on the other side of Miss Douglas, his spirit sank within him while he wondered when and how it would be filled?
Satanella seemed tired and abstracted. "Uncle Jack's" jokes fell pointless on her ear. When St. Josephs could at last think of something to say, she bent her head kindly enough, but persistently refused to accept or understand his tender allusions, interesting herself, then, and then only, in the business of the stage. In sheer self-defence, the General felt obliged to do the same.
The house roared with laughter. A celebrated low comedian was running up and down before the foot-lights in shirt and drawers. The scene represented a bedroom at an inn. The actor rang his bell, tripped over his coal-scuttle, finally upset his water-jug. Everybody went into convulsions, and St. Josephs found himself thinking of the immortal Pickwick, who "envied the facility with which the friends of Mr. Peter Magnus were amused." Turning to his tormentor, he observed the place by her side no longer vacant, and its occupant was—Daisy!
Mischievous Mrs. Lushington had "asked a man," you see, and this was the man she asked.