William Maubray’s harmless self love was flattered by the growing consideration with which he was treated. The more they saw of him plainly the better they liked him, and William began, too, dimly to fancy that there must be something very engaging about him.
A night or two later, his pupil having just gone to bed, a footman came with a little scrap of pink paper, pencilled over, in Mrs. Kincton Knox’s hand, on a salver, for William, who found these words:
“It has just struck me that I might possibly prevail upon your good-nature, to look in upon our solitude for half an hour; though we don’t like abridging your hours of liberty, it would really be quite a kindness to indulge me; and if you can lay your hand upon your volume of Tennyson, pray bring it with you.”
Up got William, and with his book in his hand followed the servant, who announced Mr. Herbert at the drawing-room door, and William found himself in that vast apartment, the lights of which were crowded about the fire, and the rest comparatively dim.
“So good of you, Mr. Herbert,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, with a superb smile, and even extending her fingers in the solemn exuberance of her welcome. “It is so very kind of you to come; so unreasonable, I fear: we had a debate, I assure you,” and she smiled with awful archness toward Miss Clara, “but my audacity carried it—you’ve brought the book too—he has brought the book, Clara; how very kind, is not it?”
Miss Clara answered by a glance at their visitor, almost grateful, and a smile at her mother, who continued—
“You have no idea, Mr. Herbert—pray sit where we can both hear and see you—how very lonely we are in these great rooms, when we are tête-à-tête, as you see.”
William’s remarks in reply were not very original or very many, but such as they were nothing could be more successful, and the ladies exchanged smiles of approbation over the timid little joke, which had all but broken down.
So William read aloud, and the ladies, each in her way, were charmed, and next night he was invited again, and there was more conversation and rather less reading, and so he grew much more easy and intimate, and began to look forward to these little reunions with a very pleasant interest: and Miss Clara’s brilliant beauty and some little indications of a penchant very flattering began to visit his fancy oftener than I should have supposed likely; although it is hard to say when the way-side flowers on the longest journey quite lose their interest; or how much care and fatigue are needed to make a man cease to smile now and then, or whistle a stave on his way.