“Do you know how long it is since you asked me to dine with you?”
“You refused three times running. I am determined that no human being shall refuse a fourth.”
“Well, you know,” said Cheriton, coolly, “you were just a little difficult the last twice I dined with you, and the wine was abominable. And with all that excellent claret that you have, and that ’63 port, and that really priceless madeira—really, Caroline, considering what your cellar can do if it chooses, the wine was unpardonable. Still, I am in no sense a vindictive man. I’ll dine with you this evening.”
“Thank you, Cheriton,” said Caroline, dryly. “Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock.”
My lord took his leave with a jauntiness that recalled the vanished era of his youth.
Two hours later the noble earl was back in Hill Street. He looked particularly soigné in the choicest of evening clothes. They fitted his corseted form to perfection.
“Where is the fair Miss Araminta?” said he, yielding his arm to his hostess.
“My niece is dining upstairs this evening,” said Caroline Crewkerne.
Profoundly distrusting the appearance of the sherry and the claret, the guest made a modest demand for whisky and soda. The fare was scanty, but what there was of it was not ill cooked. Also Caroline was not so tiresome as he had anticipated. Doubtless she was a little exhilarated by the doings of the day. She was a very sharp-witted old woman. Her shrewdness had already foreseen that the appearance of a highly original niece in a somewhat moribund ménage might bring renegades back to Hill Street craving pardon. A glimpse of the immediate future was afforded by the spectacle of a peculiarly spick and span Cheriton seated between Miss Burden and herself.