At the door of the box-lobby we had some confusion; a hundred voices were shouting "Chair! chair!—coach, coach!" at once, and an irritable old gentleman with a very red face, drew his sword to clear the way before his party of ladies.
"Who is this passionate personage?" I inquired.
"'Tis Admiral Forbes," said Madame Blythe, "the only Lord of the Admiralty who refused to sign poor Admiral Byng's death warrant."
"A Scotsman, like yourself, Basil," said Aurora smiling.
I escorted the ladies home to Piccadilly, and assisted them to alight from their sedan chairs. As the links were extinguished, and Aurora's cheek was very near mine, I—but as it is wrong to kiss and tell, I shall close this chapter, and with it my third day in London.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE LAST.
I found in Aurora an inexpressibly charming friend and companion; thus at times, in my heart, and before my funds waxed low, I completely forgave her for being the holder, the golden-haired usurper of all that was mine by right of inheritance.
But there were other times when the old emotions of pique and anger—the old memories of wrong inflicted, and of mortifications endured by my parents and myself, blazed up within me, and made me resolve to tear myself away from London and from the silken toils that were netting round me, and vow to rejoin my regiment, which was now at winter quarters at Barentrup, in Germany.
Still I hovered between Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and when we were not at some place of amusement (whither we sometimes ventured without the matronage of Madame Blythe), Aurora's drawing-room was my evening resort; for after dining at White's or at the George in the Mall I always dropped in to take "a dish of tea," as the Londoners phrased it, at that little guéridon, or tripod table, with its oval teaboard of mahogany, its diminutive cups of eggshell china, filled with that fragrant, and then expensive beverage, the honours of which old Madame Blythe, in her hoop petticoat, black mittens, and toupee, dispensed so gracefully.