No such agreeable surprise awaited the master of the house. The imposing kneehole desk in the room which his wife insisted on calling his library bore a collection of staggering bills. The Viscount was a trifle startled, not so much by his own expenditure as by Hero’s. He could not for the life of him see how she could have contrived to squander such sums merely upon furniture, but he handsomely made up his mind to level no reproach at her. Sundry accounts presented by milliners and mantua-makers made him whistle thoughtfully, but his previous experiences of such establishments precluded his feeling any extraordinary astonishment at the cost of a simple gown, or of a wisp of net and feathers fashioned into the semblance of a hat. He stuffed all the bills into a drawer, resolving to hand them over presently to his man of business for settlement. Anyone having an intimate knowledge of the Viscount’s career would have recognized at once that the sobering influence of marriage was already making itself felt, since a month ago he would have consigned them to the fire.
The young couple dined tête-a-tête at the fashionable late hour of eight o’clock on their first evening in their new home, sitting opposite one another in their smart dining-room, and waited on by a butler whose spare frame and pallid countenance seemed to indicate that he was of a suitably abstemious character. The dinner, which consisted of a broiled fowl with mushrooms, preceded by a dressed lobster and a delicacy of cockscombs served in a wine sauce, and followed by a pupton of pears, in the old style, and a trifle, was excellently cooked, and earned the Viscount’s praise. Hero, who had already been obliged to receive a stately visit from the superior being who presided over the kitchen, said in a very housewifely way that she was glad they had decided to take away the old fireplace from the kitchen, and to install a closed stove in its place.
The Viscount rather spoiled the effect of this utterance by grinning across the table at her, and demanding what the devil she knew about kitchen stoves. Hero twinkled merrily back at him, and replied: “Well, not very much, but Mrs Groombridge says that they are excellent contrivances, and there is a great saving of coal.”
“Well, that’s something, at all events,” said Sherry, putting up his glass to inspect the bottle the butler was exhibiting at his elbow. “No, not that. Bring up a bottle of sparkling champagne. You’ll like that, Kitten.” As the Viscount liked his wine to be very dry, Hero had to school her features to an expression of appreciation she was some way from feeling. That made his lordship laugh, but he told her that he could not permit her to be everlastingly maudling her inside with such stuff as ratafia, and bade her drink it up like a good girl. “A glass of wine with you, my lady!” he said, raising his glass. “Damme, we must drink to our first home, so we must!”
Under his instruction, Hero very correctly left him at the end of dinner, and withdrew to the drawing-room abovestairs, while he drank his port in solitary state. Since this was dull work, he soon joined her, dropping into one of the straw-coloured chairs, and stretching out his long legs towards the grate, where a small fire had been kindled, and saying, with a yawn, that there was a deal to be said for a fellow’s getting married after all.
“At least,” he added, “there would be, if you hadn’t bought such an uncomfortable set of chairs! What the deuce was Ferdy about to countenance it?”
“Oh, don’t you remember, Sherry? We bought these together, on that first day, when you went with me to choose our furniture.”
“Good God, I must have been foxed!”
“Well, perhaps you are sitting in the wrong one,” said Hero. “I wish you will try this one instead: indeed, it is very comfortable!”
The Viscount made no objection to changing places with her, and as he pronounced this second chair to be tolerably easy, she was perfectly satisfied.