CHAPTER XIV.
AN IMBROGLIO.
The great dining-hall of the hotel, where the table d'hôte was daily served, was empty; all the visitors had gone to the theatres, the Tivoli gardens, and so forth, so Trevor Chute and the lady found themselves seated at a long table alone, to partake of a meal that was of course deemed supper there, where people dine at 2 p.m.
The salle was elegant; at one end a great console glass, with all its curved branches, lit up the gilded cornices, the tall mirrors, the long extent of damask table-cloth, the rich fruit, the silver epergnes, and the wines.
Without, through the open windows, could be seen, on one side, the partially-lighted streets of quaint gable-ended houses, all of the middle ages; on the other, the dark and silent woods, where the Trave and the Wakenitz wandered towards the Baltic, showing here and there amid the shadows 'the phosphor crests of star-lit waves,' while overhead was a cloudless sky, the constellations of which had a brilliance and a clearness all unknown in England.
All was very still without, and perhaps—for all are abed betimes in these northern cities—the only sounds that stirred the air were the murmur of the Trave, with the music of a band in a distant Tivoli garden.
'Oh, that Clare were with me here!' thought Chute, while endeavouring to make himself agreeable to a woman of whom he knew nothing, and for whom he cared nothing; and Chute had a natural turn and capacity for doing it with all, but with a lady more especially; and she, to all appearance naturally fast and coquettish, could not help giving Chute, even amid her dilemma, what she deemed one of her most effective side-glances; but, though they were not unperceived, they were wholly wasted upon him, save as a little source of amusement; and after a time her face and manner seemed to express a wish to know who this man was who seemed so politely insensible to her powers—to those of all women, perhaps. He was quite unlike, she thought, anything she had ever met in her world, and she was, consequently, somewhat piqued.
On the other side of the table Chute, while toying with the fruit and drinking with her the golden moselle, was wondering who his fair compagnon de voyage was; and felt that it might be bad taste to inquire her name, as she had not asked for his; yet she knew many of his old friends in the Brigade—men who were well up in the service when he joined, and long before he left it for India.
She seemed fond of questioning about the latter, and led him to speak more of himself, and of wild adventures in the dark jungle, where daylight scarcely came, than was his wont. She asked him what his regiment was, and on his telling her, the expression of her face brightened; and laughingly tapping his hand with her perfumed fan, she said:
'Then you must know well a friend of mine.'