He faltered, and she checked further speech by her own contrition.
"Hush," she implored. "See, we are friends. It was our primrose bond, or, rather, an older one still—of ten years since." She smiled with a flash of coquetry to give meaning to her words. "And as you are my knight I lay command upon you never to speak word of that again. The past is dead, quite dead. Your father is Morry's friend—and you are mine."
"Till death, if you will have it so," he whispered, and would have added more but that a clamour rose from the card-table where Lady Helmington, having won her rubber and being in a vastly good humour, declared that she was positively dying with hunger, and hoped that supper was served.
Mistress Conyers, youthful and very unwilling hostess, rose to reassure her famished guest that an ample meal awaited them in the dining-room, bidding Morice escort her ladyship thither, whilst—after an instant's hesitation and a faint rising of colour—she demanded the arm of Sir Stephen Berrington.
With ladies in such a minority, and Lady Helmington willing enough, for one, to join in the revelry, supper at Langton Hall was a noisy repast.
Yet Michael noted with pleasure that his father lacked nothing in respect to his young hostess, whilst on her left hand was seated Mr. Guy Barton, a silent and imperturbable gentleman who ate with relish paying no heed to my Lord Denningham's anger at being ousted from a coveted position.
Those were hard-drinking days, when intoxication was considered no disgrace, and rather the exception if a gentleman did not need his valet or butler to escort him to bed; and Sir Stephen's punch-brewing was proverbial, even at Carlton House.
Lady Helmington might fume and fuss in vain, waiting for her whist in the saloon after supper, tête-à-tête with a little prude who turned a deaf and obviously disapproving ear to all the scandal and gossip of town, declaring that the very idea of London depressed her.
It was useless to think that the merry-makers in the dining-room would be in the mood for more card-playing that night. Her ladyship, tired of waiting, declared at last that she was nearly dead of fatigue, and departed in a huff to bed—or, rather, to the rating of her French maid, whilst Gabrielle, after a few minutes' wistful lingering, followed her unwelcome guest, not daring to remain alone, unchaperoned, yet longing—she did not tell herself for what, though she kissed the half-withered posy of primroses ere she laid them aside. Primroses and spring sunshine made pleasant memories, and—and how well he had looked in his Court suit of satin; so different from those popinjay friends of Morry's. She hated them all, in especial that Lord Denningham, with his nasty eyes and familiar speeches.
Show him her woods, indeed! Faugh! A likely tale. She hated blue eyes that looked—so——. Grey eyes for her—grey eyes that could gaze straight down and down till they found—her heart?