The turn of events lent an old-time pungency to what had once ranked as the most malicious tongue in London.
“Upon my honor,” said the enchanted guest, “my dear Caroline, you are quite at your high-water mark this evening.”
Caroline valued that kind of compliment, and she acquiesced in it grimly. Cheriton’s remark was quite sincere; and in order to attest his bona fides he told a story that caused Miss Burden to spill the salt, while only the intervention of a miracle averted a more signal disaster to the claret.
Cheriton was duly rewarded. By the time they had got to the mahogany—Caroline Crewkerne was a stickler for old fashions—the hostess said in an aside to Mr. Marchbanks, “The madeira and the ’63 port wine.”
There can be little doubt that Cheriton was sustained throughout a not particularly exhilarating function by the hope of seeing the peerless Miss Araminta in the drawing-room afterwards. In this, however, he was disappointed. The tardy minutes passed, but Miss Araminta did not appear. At last in desperation he was moved to inquire—
“Where hides the reluctant fair?”
“Speak English, Cheriton.”
“The adorable Miss Perry.”
“The creature is in bed,” said Caroline, incisively. “It is a long journey from Slocum Magna for a growing girl.”
“Is one given to understand that she made the whole journey in a single day?”