“I am only afraid of his being too fortunate ... in some things!” Marion said laughingly; “so, to make the balance even, I am going to inflict on him the misfortune of taking me home. That is, if he will.”
“That misfortune is the best of all his fortunes this evening,” was Perdita’s reply; “and I am enough his friend to be glad of it.”
While these courtesies were passing between the ladies, Philip, who perceived that something serious was the matter, had risen and placed himself by Marion’s side, and they now moved away together, while Fillmore appropriated Philip’s vacated chair. When the young poet and his wife went to make their adieux to Lady Flanders, her ladyship said to Marion, “I saw your husband flirting with that little Marquise. Don’t you let him do it! She’s the most dangerous woman in this room, and the only one who is cleverer than I am. But I’m clever enough to see through her, and I hope you are!”
And with this benediction the young couple set out homewards.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE drive back to Hammersmith was not a particularly agreeable one. Philip began by maintaining a grave silence: he felt his dignity somewhat impaired by the almost peremptory summons to come home before the party was half over, without any reason given or time for consideration allowed; and he suspected that it might be due to some new jealousy on Marion’s part toward Perdita, which made him prefer to leave the conduct of the conversation in her hands. Lady Flanders’ parting observations had been peculiarly apt from this point of view, and Philip secretly owed her a grudge for them; the rather since, although his own conscience acquitted him well enough in the matter, there was no denying that Perdita’s language had been open to the charge of ambiguity. Marion, however, could not have been aware of this, and her suspicions, if she had any, must have been aroused by some communication from a third person. Now it was manifestly undesirable that any third person should be permitted to come between husband and wife at all, much more that the interference should have any weight ascribed to it, except as an interference. Marion was in the wrong, therefore, to begin with, be her own grievance what it might; and Philip deemed it incumbent on his self-respect to let her bring forward her explanations without any motion on his side to anticipate them.
As for Marion, she was silent at first from excitement, which, from whatever cause arising, always had a perverse or contradictory effect upon her demeanor; causing her to laugh at what was serious, and to be reticent when volubility would have seemed more natural. Moreover, having so much to say, she did not know what to say first; and the matter in hand being, from her point of view, of great importance, she desired to make as few mistakes as possible, especially at the beginning. She saw, too, that Philip was not in an especially good humor, and she wished to mitigate his displeasure before unloading her heart to him. She had, up to this time, full confidence in his love for her; but she was conscious that what she had to propose would be somewhat trying to his generosity; and she desired to start with as prosperous a breeze as possible.
Accordingly, she pulled off her glove within her muff (which was large enough to have allowed of much more extensive evolutions) and slipped her warm hand into Philip’s. He, however, had his gloves on, and was not expecting her demonstration; and between his unreadiness and his glove it did not succeed very well. To make matters worse, he said:
“Didn’t you bring your gloves with you, my dear? ’Tis a very cold night.”
“Oh, yes; but I didn’t feel cold,” she replied carelessly, returning her hand to her muff; and then, feeling that this was not a hopeful opening, she added: “It was too bad to take you away so early, Philip; but I thought you wouldn’t mind when you knew.”