“I feel sure the husband of dear Lady Augusta is a gentleman.”
“Burden,” said the old lady, ruthlessly, “you are a born fool. Ring the bell. It is time I had my massage.”
During the course of the morning Caroline Crewkerne’s oldest friend looked in to pass the time of day with her. He stayed to luncheon.
Cheriton was one of those men whose mission in life it is to appear on all occasions and in every season as one apart from the vulgar herd. There can be no doubt that he succeeded in this laudable ambition. His corsets were not to everybody’s taste, and there were also those who did not care greatly for the color of his wig and the way in which he wore it. Its hue was as the raven’s, abundant in texture and arranged low on the forehead in the form of a fringe. But Caroline Crewkerne’s judgment of her old gossip was the correct one. Whatever Cheriton was or whatever he was not, emphatically he was not a fool. Had he been in any sort oppressed by that not unamiable form of human weakness the redoubtable Caroline would have been very quick to expose it. In a matter of that kind no one could have had a keener or more uncompromising instinct. They knew each other so well, they had crossed swords so often, each derived so much zest from the display of the other’s dexterity, that while interpreting one another with a frankness that less robust persons might have found almost brutal, it had respect for a mutual basis.
To Cheriton’s credit let it be written, he was an admirer of women. If they were pretty his admiration was apt to increase. If a character of quite singular merit had its vulnerable point—and I do not positively assert that it had—it was perhaps to be found in his dealings with the most attractive members of what has always been allowed to be a most attractive institution.
To the whole of that sex, however, it was his wont to be extraordinarily polite, charming, supple, and attentive. No one could call Miss Burden supremely attractive. She had so many things against her, including the immediate loss of her place had she developed any special powers in this direction. But she had long been Lord Cheriton’s devoted slave and adherent. It was merely the result of his way with the whole of womankind. Young or old, fair or ugly, it made no difference. An air of deferential pleasantness, of candid homage so lightly touched with sarcasm that it passed for whimsicality, was extended towards all who bore the name of woman, whether it was Caroline Crewkerne herself, her penniless dependent, or the old flower-seller at the top of the Haymarket. His grace of demeanor and his slightly ironical bonhomie were at the service of each of them equally.
It is not too much to say that Miss Burden adored Lord Cheriton. Not openly, of course, not in the broad light of day; but there can be little doubt that had the occasion ever arisen she would gladly have yielded her life for this handsome, deferential, finely preserved nobleman of five-and-sixty. Nor is it a matter to be wondered at. Although she was a well-read woman with an excellent taste of her own, he made out her circulating-library lists for her; he invariably had a bunch of violets to offer her, or any other simple flower that was in season; he took a genuine interest in the condition of her health; and further there was every reason to suspect that in his heart of hearts he shared her intense dislike of Ponto, who had very rudimentary ideas indeed of the deference due to light-gray trousers.
“Cheriton,” said the old lady, as soon as they were seated at luncheon, “did you know that George Betterton was in London?”
The pair of old gossips looked one another in the face with an air of demure innocence.
“And she at Biarritz,” said Cheriton, musically.