CHAPTER CCXLI.
CROCKFORD'S.
Sir Rupert Harborough, Mr. Albert Egerton, and Mr. Arthur Chichester were walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars, along the West Strand, about ten minutes after the little incident which closed the preceding chapter, when they were met by two tall and fashionable-looking gentlemen, who immediately recognised the baronet and Chichester.
Both parties stopped; and the two gentlemen were in due course introduced to Mr. Egerton as Lord Dunstable and the Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley.
By the significant tone and manner of the baronet,—a sort of freemasonry known only to the initiated,—both Dunstable and the Colonel were given to understand that a flat had been caught in the person of Mr. Albert Egerton; and they immediately received their cue as completely as if they had been prompted by half an hour's explanation.
"What have you been doing with yourselves, gentlemen, this evening?" inquired Dunstable, as they all now proceeded together through Trafalgar Square.
"My friends and myself have been supping at the Paradise," answered the baronet, carelessly.
Mr. Egerton drew himself up an inch higher immediately, although somewhat top-heavy with the champagne and cigars;—but he felt quite proud—quite another man, indeed—at being numbered amongst Sir Rupert Harborough's friends, and at walking familiarly in the company of a real lord.
"Cholmondeley and I were thinking of looking in at Crockford's before we encountered you," observed Dunstable, forgetting at the moment that himself and friend were proceeding in quite a contrary direction when the meeting alluded to took place. "What say you? shall we all go to Crockford's?"
Egerton noticed not the little oversight. The word "Crockford's" perfectly electrified him. He had often passed by the great pandemonium in St. James's Street, and looked with wistful eyes at its portals—marvelling whether they would ever unfold to give admission to him; and now that there seemed a scintillation of a chance of that golden wish, which he had so often shadowed forth, being substantially gratified, he could scarcely believe that he was in truth Albert Egerton, the son of an outfitter, and having a very respectable widowed aunt engaged in the haberdashery line on Finsbury Pavement;—but it appeared as if he had suddenly received a transfusion of that aristocracy in whose company he found himself.
Already did he make up his mind to cut the good old aunt and the half-dozen of fair cousins—her daughters—for ever:—already did he vow never to be seen east of Temple Bar again. But then he thought how pleasant it would be to drop in at Finsbury Pavement on some Sunday—just at the hour of dinner, which he could make his lunch—and then astound his relatives with the mention of his aristocratic acquaintances,—no, his friends,—Lord Dunstable, Sir Rupert Harborough, the Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley, and the Honourable Arthur Chichester!