"What can't be cured—you know the proverb, Captain Cavendish. Charley, wait for me in the hall, I will be there directly."
She crossed the room with the airy elegance peculiar to her light swinging tread, made her adieux quietly to the hostess, and sought her wrappings and the dressing-room.
As she ran down into the hall in a large shawl, gracefully worn, and a white cloud round her pretty face, she found Captain Cavendish waiting with Charley. It was he who offered her his arm, and Charley ran down the steps before them. Through the wet fog they saw an old-fashioned two-seated buggy waiting, and the driver looking impatiently down.
"I wish you would drive up with me, Charley," said Natty, settling herself in her seat.
"Can't," said Charley. "I am going to see somebody else's sister home. I'll take a run up to-morrow evening."
"Miss Marsh," Captain Cavendish lazily began, "if you will permit me to——" but Natty cut him short with a gay laugh.
"And make all the young ladies in there miserable for the rest of the evening! No, thank you! I am not quite so heartless. Good night!"
She leaned forward to say it, the next moment she was lost in the fog. He caught one glimpse of a white hand waved, of the half-saucy, half-wicked, wholly-bewitching smile, of the dancing blue eyes and golden hair, and then there was nothing but a pale blank of mist and wet, and Charley was speaking:
"Hang the fog! it goes through one like a knife! Come along in, captain, they are going to dance."
Captain Cavendish went in, but not to dance. He had come from curiosity to see what the Speckportonians were like, not intending to remain over an hour or so. Now that Natty was gone, there was no inducement to stay. He sought out Mrs. McGregor, to say good-night.