“Oh yes,” answered Joan, earnestly. “It only shows that there is, after all, a great deal of good in human nature, that in such a movement as this rich and poor, great and small, are all equal.”
Cornish nodded in his quick sympathetic way, accepting as we all accept the social statements of the day, which are oft repeated and never weighed. Then he turned to White and tapped that soldier's arm emphatically.
“Way to get on nowadays,” he said, “is to be prominent in some great movement for benefiting mankind.” Joan heard the words, and, turning, looked at Cornish with a momentary doubt.
“And I mean to get on in the world, my dear Joan,” he said, with a gravity which quite altered his keen, fair face. It passed off instantly, as if swept away by the ready smile which came again. A close observer might have begun to wonder under which mask lay the real Tony Cornish.
Major White looked stolidly at his friend. His face, on the contrary never changed.
Lady Ferriby joined them at this moment—a silent, querulous-looking woman in black silk and priceless lace, who, despite her white hair and wrinkled face, yet wore her clothes with that carefulness which commands respect from high and low alike. The world was afraid of Lady Ferriby, and had little to say to her. It turned aside, as a rule, when she approached. And when she had passed on with her suspicious glance, her bent and shaking head, it whispered that there walked a woman with a romantic past. It is, moreover, to be hoped that the younger portion of Lady Ferriby's world took heed of this catlike, lonely woman, and recognized the melancholy fact that it is unwise to form a romantic attachment in the days of one's youth.
“Tony,” said her ladyship, “they have eaten all the sandwiches.”
And there was something in her voice, in her manner of touching Tony Cornish's arm with her fan that suggested in a far-off, cold way that this social butterfly had reached one of the still strings of her heart. Who knows? There may have been, in those dim days when Lady Ferriby had played her part in the romantic story which all hinted at and none knew, another such as Tony Cornish—gay and debonair, careless, reckless, and yet endowed with the power of making some poor woman happy.
“My dear aunt,” replied Cornish, with a levity with which none other ever dared to treat her, “the benevolent are always greedy. And each additional virtue—temperance, loving-kindness, humility—only serves to dull the sense of humour and add to the appetite. Give them biscuits, aunt.”
And offering her his arm, he good-naturedly led her to the refreshment-room to investigate the matter. As she passed through the crowded rooms, she glanced from face to face with her quick, seeking look. She cordially disliked all these people. And their principal crime was that they ate and drank. For Lady Ferriby was a miser.