“It was perhaps a bad school,” said the daughter of the Marquis, with a little laugh. “Oh, you must not be too severe about my dear Brittany! Here we are! Do come in!”
Boy helped her out of the cab, and as she sprang lightly to the ground she looked up with tender entreaty in her eyes and repeated the words. “Do come in!”
Boy hesitated,—then paid the cabman and dismissed him.
“Do you think your father—the Marquis——” he stammered uneasily.
“He will be charmed!” said the captivating Lenore. “Come—I will take no denial. You must have supper with us—come!” And almost before he knew how it happened, Boy found himself in the highly decorated hall of a small flat, bowing to a stoutly built gentleman with a red face and a superabundance of moustache, whom Lenore introduced as—
“My father, the Marquis de Gramont!”
And while Boy made his bashful salute, father and daughter exchanged a profane wink which had their guileless guest observed, would certainly have surprised him.
“Dear papa!” said Lenore then, in her pretty caressing voice, “how could you leave me behind at the theatre in that cruel way? What were you thinking about? This is Mr. Robert D’Arcy-Muir, the son of the Honourable Mr. D’Arcy-Muir, who was good enough to get me a hansom and bring me home,—and if he hadn’t been so kind to me, where do you suppose I should have been, you naughty papa!”
By this time the Marquis appeared to understand and grasp the position.
“My dear, I am very sorry!” he said in smooth deep accents—“very sorry! I really thought you had gone home with our other friends! But you have been most fortunate in finding such a handsome and gallant cavalier to take care of you. You are very welcome, my boy,” he said heartily, laying a fat hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Supper has just begun. Come in, sans cérémonie! Come and share our simple meal!”