Victory is the commonest heritage of the hero, and when Richard came on shore proclaiming that the Blandish had beaten the Begum by seven minutes and three-quarters, he was hastily kissed and congratulated by his bride with her fingers among the leaves of Dr. Kitchener, and anxiously questioned about wine.
“Dearest! Mr. Harley wants to stay with us a little, and he thinks we ought not to go immediately—that is, before he has had some letters, and I feel... I would so much rather...”
“Ah! that’s it, you coward!” said Richard. “Well, then, to-morrow. We had a splendid race. Did you see us?”
“Oh, yes! I saw you and was sure my darling would win.” And again she threw on him the cold water of that solicitude about wine. “Mr. Harley must have the best, you know, and we never drink it, and I’m so silly, I don’t know good wine, and if you would send Tom where he can get good wine. I have seen to the dinner.”
“So that’s why you didn’t come to meet me?”
“Pardon me, darling.”
“Well, I do, but Mountfalcon doesn’t, and Lady Judith thinks you ought to have been there.”
“Ah, but my heart was with you!”
Richard put his hand to feel for the little heart: her eyelids softened, and she ran away.
It is to say much of the dinner that Adrian found no fault with it, and was in perfect good-humour at the conclusion of the service. He did not abuse the wine they were able to procure for him, which was also much. The coffee, too, had the honour of passing without comment. These were sound first steps toward the conquest of an epicure, and as yet Cupid did not grumble.