“What is her name?” asked someone idly, in a break of the general conversation, so that everybody paused to listen to his reply.
“Stella—Stella Fregelius; a very unusual girl.”
Then the conversation broke out again with renewed vigour, and all that those at Morris’s end of the table could catch were snatches such as: “Wonderful eyes”; “Independent young person”; “Well read and musical”; “Oh, yes! poor as church mice, that’s why he accepted my offer.”
At this point the Doctor began a rather vehement argument with Mr. Porson as to the advisability of countervailing duties to force foreign nations to abandon the sugar bounties, and no more was heard of Mr. Tomley and his plans.
On the whole, Mary enjoyed that dinner-party. Miss Layard, somewhat sore after her first encounter, attempted to retaliate later.
But by this time Mary’s argumentative energy had evaporated. Therefore, adroitly appealing to Mr. Layard to take her part, she retired from the fray till, seeing that it grew acrimonious, for this brother and sister did not love each other, she pretended to hear no more.
“Have you been stopping out all night again and staring at the sea, Morris?” she inquired; “because I understand it is a habit of yours. You seem so sleepy. I know that I must have looked just like you when that old political gentleman took me in to dinner, and I made an exhibition of myself.”
“What was that?” asked Morris.
So she told him the story of her unlawful slumbers, and so amusingly that he burst out laughing and remained in an excellent mood for the rest of the feast, or at any rate until the ladies had departed. After this event once more he became somewhat silent and distant.
It was not wonderful. To most men, except the very experienced, proposals are terrifying ordeals, and Morris had made up his mind, if he could find a chance, to propose to Mary that night. The thing was to be done, so the sooner he did it the better.