They were passing a lamp-post. Miss Wix's mouth was the size of a sixpence, and her eyebrows had entirely disappeared under her bonnet.
"It always is," she said. "The agreements are always signed—and written in invisible ink. I don't seem to remember the time when that young man wasn't coming out 'next spring,' and I knew him in his cradle. He was an affected horror then."
Kent laughed to himself in walking home; he had suspected the accuracy of the proud parents' statements already, just as he had suspected, when he had been invited to meet an operatic celebrity at The Hawthorns, who it was that sent the telegram of regrets and apologies that bore the star's name. He wondered how much the Walfords' foolishness and his pupil's vanity had been worth to the Italian singing-master, who gesticulated about the drawing-room and foretold such triumphs.
When he re-entered No. 64, he was relieved to find the company cheerful again; they seemed even to be in high spirits, and the cause was promptly evident. Cynthia pointed radiantly to a letter lying on the table.
"For you," she cried, "from Cousins! Be quick; we're all dying of impatience. How did you leave Aunt Emily?"
"She's going to bed," he said, tearing the envelope open.
His heart had leapt, and he trusted only that he wasn't destined to be damped by the suggested price. The others sat regarding him eagerly, waiting for him to speak. Cynthia tried to guess the amount by his expression.
"Well?" said Mrs. Walford at last—"Well? What do they say?"
Kent put the note down; all the colour had gone from his face. His lips twitched, and his voice was not under control as he answered.
"They haven't accepted it," he said; "they're returning it to me. They don't think it good."