“Like his furren imperdence,” as Henry said, and then the said Henry had to go in and stand behind his master’s chair. As soon after three parts of a bottle of champagne was passed upstairs with a glass by a kindly disposed waiter, the packing of the newly-married lady went on worse than ever, and several travelling-cases were left unfastened in the bedroom.
“I say,” whispered Tom, going behind her ladyship’s chair, “you are never going to let the gov’nor speak?”
“Yes, certainly. He must,” said her ladyship in a decisive tone; and she turned to the guest on her right.
“But he’ll break down as sure as a gun,” remonstrated the son.
“I have prompted him, and he knows what to say,” replied her ladyship. “Go back to your place.”
“Oh, just as you like,” grumbled Tom; and he returned to his seat, determined in his own mind to stand behind his father’s chair, and to prompt him to the best of his ability.
The breakfast went on amidst the pleasant tinkle of glass and plate, the conversation grew louder, there was the frequent pop of champagne corks, and the various couples grew too much engrossed to notice what took place with their neighbours.
“Maude,” said Charley Melton at last, “if you were put to the test, should you give up any one you loved, and accept a comparative stranger because he could do as that man has done—load you with diamonds?”
She turned her eyes to his with a reproachful look, and the colour suffused her face.
“No one can hear what I say,” he whispered, with his eyes fixed upon his plate. “But listen to me. I feel that it is almost madness, but I love you very, very dearly. You know it—you must know it. Ever since we met, six months since, you have been my sole thought. I ought not to speak, but I cannot keep it back waiting for an opportunity that may never come. And if some day I awoke to the fact that I had made no declaration and another had carried you off, I believe I should go mad. Give me one word of hope. I am very poor—terribly poor, but times may change, and money does not provide all the happiness of life.—Not one word? Have I been deceived? Was I mad to think that you met me these many times with pleasure? Give me one word—one look.”