I sprang into Mowbray’s carriage one of the happiest men on earth, full of love, hope, and joy.
CHAPTER XII.
“All gone to bed but you?” said I to the footman, who opened the door.
“No, sir,” said the drowsy fellow, “my lady is sitting up for you, I believe.”
“Then, Mowbray, come in—come up with me to my mother, pray do, for one instant.”
Before she slept, I said, he must administer an antidote to Coates’s poison. While the impression was still fresh in his mind, I entreated he would say what a delightful party we had had. My mother, I knew, had such a high idea of his lordship’s judgment in all that concerned gentility and fashion, that a word from him would be decisive. “But let it be to-morrow morning,” said Mowbray; “‘tis shamefully late to-night.”
“To-night—to-night—now, now,” persisted I. He complied: “Any thing to oblige you.”
“Remember,” said I, as we ran up stairs, “Spanish ambassador, Russian envoy, Polish Count and Countess, and an English general and his lady—strong in rank we’ll burst upon the enemy.” I flung open the door, but my spirits were suddenly checked; I saw it was no time for jest and merriment.