A swelling head, from the contemplation of one's importance in the great drama of life, and a heart swelling with thoughts of one young woman, are two phenomena which make the bachelor days of all men remarkably alike at one stage or another.
If "the youngest editor of any daily newspaper in England" (vide the Fourth Estate) let the church slide that Sunday morning, he devoted as much care to his personal appearance as the least devout of ladies to her Easter Sunday toilet. When he arrived at the Wintons, arrayed in a well-fitting frock-coat and glossy silk hat, there was no least lingering trace of the outward Henry we knew of old.
The dinner was very daintily served indeed; there was a touch of pleasant luxury about the meal which contrasted most favourably with the homely cuisine of Hampton Bagot, to say nothing of his lonely bachelor dinners. He knew that the hand which had set this table and superintended that meal was Flo's, and assured himself he was on the right tack. What a charming hostess she would make! How well she would entertain his friends, and do the honours of his house! It was in pure innocence of heart, and merely with a desire to agreeably tease the visitor, that Mr. Winton remarked during the meal:
"Well, Henry, you are quite an important personage now; the next thing we shall hear is that you have blossomed out with a fine villa in Park Road, and—a wife!"
From the mother—any mother—such an observation would, in all likelihood, have been prompted by thoughts of a daughter; but not from the father—not from any father.
Flo tried not to look conscious; though under cover of her apparent indifference she stole an anxious glance at Henry, who only laughed. The laugh was not convincing of the indifference which his speech suggested:
"Plenty of time for that, Mr. Winton. I have a lot to do before I turn my thoughts to the domestic side of life. Besides, it means a year or two of saving."
Flo imagined that for one brief second the eye of their interesting visitor rested upon her as he delivered himself so to her father.
It was the first occasion since the old days at Wheelton that Henry had engaged to spend more than an hour or two at the Wintons, and the drawing-room conversation seeming to flag a little after dinner, Flo suggested a walk. The weather was alluring, and Laysford on an autumn day is one of the most lovable towns in England. Henry was nothing loth, and for the sake of appearance, Edgar was included; but before they had reached the green banks of the River Lays the obliging fellow had suddenly remembered an appointment with a friend who lived in an opposite direction, and Flo and Henry were bereft of his company for the remainder of the walk, which now lay along the grove of elms by the river-side.
"It's really too bad of Edgar," said Flo, with a fine show of indignation when he had gone. "One can't depend on him for five minutes at a time; he's always rushing away like that."