“Good-bye, Graves, and don’t fret. I dare say that something will turn up. My experience is that something generally does turn up—that is to say, when one is the right side of forty.”
“Oh, Sir Henry!” said Emma, appearing at the door of the drawing-room, “will you take a note to your sister for me? It is just ready.”
“Certainly,” he answered, following her to the writing-table.
“It is about my going to town with her next month,” she went on. “I have been speaking to my father, and he says that I may if I like. It is a question of trousseau—not that I know anything about such matters, but I am glad of the excuse for a change. Are you going with her?”
“I don’t know. An old messmate of mine always gives a dinner at the Rag on the twentieth, to celebrate an adventure in which we were concerned together. I had a letter from him the other day asking me to come. I haven’t answered it yet, but if you like I will accept. I believe you go up on the eighteenth, don’t you?”
Emma coloured faintly. “Of course it would be pleasant if you came,” she answered. “We might go to some picture galleries, and to the British Museum to look at those Egyptian things.”
“All right,” said Henry; “we’ve got to get there first. And now good-bye. I can assure you that I shall never forget your goodness to me.”
“The goodness is on your side, Sir Henry: it is very kind of you to have come to see us.”
“And it is very nice of you to say so, Miss Levinger. Again good-bye, or rather au revoir.”