"And now, Captain Bloxam," said Mrs. Wriothesley, "if you will ring the bell for coffee, Sylla and I will get our cloaks on while it cools; and then I think we must be going. Oh, about transport?" she adds, pausing at the door. "I think, Mr. Cottrell, if you will take me in your brougham, we will send the young couple in mine. Thanks," she continued, in reply to Mr. Cottrell's bow of assent. "Come, Sylla."
Mr. Cottrell's thoughts were naturally unspoken, but he could not refrain from mentally ejaculating, "Poor Lady Mary! what chance can she have against such an artist as this?"
A few weeks ago, and no girl would, perhaps, have laughed more at the idea of being nervous about driving alone to the theatre with Captain Bloxam than Sylla Chipchase; but she unmistakably was this evening, and, only that she was afraid of being ridiculed by her aunt, would have asked to change escorts. She could not help showing it in her manner a little when they were fairly started; and the Hussar was far from discouraged thereby.
His mind was fully made up, and he pleaded his best, not one bit abashed by her faint responses to his passionate protestations.
"I cannot tell you when I began to love you," he continued; "it was from the first time I saw you, I believe; and, Sylla, I do hope you care a little about me. I can hardly expect an answer tonight" (he did, and meant having it, all the same). It would be hardly fair; but if you can promise to be my wife before we part, I shall be the lightest-hearted Hussar that rides up the Long Valley tomorrow."
"I don't know. I didn't think you cared about me. I must have time," she murmured.
Oh, these lovers! She did know; she did think he cared about her, and she wanted no time.
"Sylla, dearest," continued Jim, "you must have known that I loved you; no woman is ever blind to that. That you should reflect before you give me an answer, I can understand; but please let me know my fate as soon as possible. It is cruel to keep me in suspense." And here the flood of Jim's eloquence was arrested by the brougham pulling up at the door of the theatre.
Mrs. Wriothesley and her cavalier glanced keenly at the pair as they entered the box. Mr. Cottrell, indeed, had complimented his hostess on her little bit of finesse on the road, and she had made no scruple of admitting that she hoped to bring about a marriage between the two. As to the Hussar, he was quite equal to the occasion, and from all that could be gathered from his imperturbable manner, might have been entertaining his companion with his meteorological views for the last half-hour. But with poor Sylla it was different. However good an actress the girl might be theatrically, she was a lamentable failure in the affairs of real life now that she found herself the leading lady; and both her quick-eyed aunt and the lynx-eyed Mr. Cottrell felt just as certain that an éclaircissement had taken place as if they had assisted at it. More discreet chaperons were impossible, and after the first glance they took no further notice of the lovers, confining their conversation to each other, and their attention to the stage. After a little Mr. Cottrell discovered a friend in the stalls, with whom it was an absolute necessity he should exchange a few words; and then the interest Mrs. Wriothesley took in the play proved what an enthusiast she was about dramatic art.
But the green curtain fell at last—though, with the exception of Mrs. Wriothesley, it would be almost open to question whether any of them knew even the name of the piece they had witnessed—and the party proceeded homewards. Jim made good use of his opportunities on the drive back to Hans Place; and upon arrival, took advantage of Sylla's temporary escape upstairs to whisper to Mrs. Wriothesley that he had told his tale, and been favourably listened to. He felt assured of her congratulations. He knew he was a favourite of hers, and that she was much too clever a woman to have allowed him to see so much of Sylla unless she had approved of his suit. They were a very pleasant but rather quiet party at supper. Lovers in the spring-tide of their delirium have rarely conversation except for each other; but then that suffices amply for their enjoyment. Mrs. Wriothesley, triumphant in her schemes, chatted gaily with Mr. Cottrell, who was Sybarite enough to know that the discussion of the fish salad that he was then engaged upon, accompanied by the prattle of a pretty woman and irreproachable champagne, was about as near Elysium as a man of his years and prosaic temperament could expect to arrive at. He had had some conversation with his hostess on the way home. They had both arrived at the conclusion, from what they had seen in the theatre, that, even if everything was not yet settled, it would be before the evening was out. When she bade him good night, Mrs. Wriothesley added in low tones,