“Bah!” whispered Miss Marsden, noiselessly, “men jabber just like girls when they are alone.”
Her champion continued, “Poor girl! she looks as fragile as a bit of my aunt’s egg-shell china, and Delessert said she was as jolly as a sandboy before this happened.”
Mr. Maybury took up the strain. “And the scamp that took the roses out of her cheeks is now transplanting them in the affections of another girl, according to our Jack of cards informant. Seek him out, Eversleigh; ‘cudgel him like a dog,’ to quote old Will; persuade Miss Anonyma Marsden to ‘doff the willow garland’ for the low deceiver, and don a bit of orange blossom for you.”
“What an utter idiot!” murmured Miss Marsden, in annoyance, and trying to hush Nina, who had lost control of herself and had buried her head in the sofa cushions. In trying to suppress her, Miss Marsden lost a part of the conversation; and when she resumed her place at the window she found that Captain Eversleigh had entered upon a more egotistical branch of the subject.
“Can you not suggest some way of gaining their favour?” he was asking, impatiently.
“One is a society woman, and the other a shy robin,” replied Mr. Maybury, in an oracular tone of voice.
“They both probably understand music,” continued Captain Eversleigh. “Would it not be jolly if we could get them to make some use of the piano and organ during these everlasting days? This ceaseless stupidity will soon turn my brain. Fordyce won’t come out of his shell, Delessert we have cut, and as all the eligible people but those girls are ill, it leaves us only a few cads of men to fall back on. That little beggar in the glaring tweed suit will worry me into my grave if some one doesn’t stop him from teasing away from me all those two shilling cigars I bought of the Spanish consul for the voyage.”
“Leave your cigar-case behind you when you go to the smoking-room,” suggested Mr. Maybury. Then he burst out laughing. “By Jove, though, it’s as good as a play to see the little divvy’s nose going when you approach.”
“My precious Havanas shall not waste their fragrance any longer on that cockney,” grumbled Captain Eversleigh; “a twopenny cigarette is good enough for him. Maybury, you are going to sleep. Rouse yourself, old boy, and sing ‘Press the Grape;’” and he began a drinking-song in well-controlled, pleasant tones.
Presently his friend joined in with a voice so opposed to his conversational tones that, overcome by his raven-like croakings, they both exploded in peals of laughter. Their mirth was infectious, and hastily closing the window Miss Marsden and Nina too gave way to merriment.