“Captain Guest! I’m surpr-iz-ed! How dare you take advantage of my unprotected position, to make such a suggestion? In England young girls—nice young girls, do not go about with young gentlemen unchaperoned. I’m shocked at you! I should have believed you would have been more considerate!”
“We could start early. I could introduce you to my aunt. She would find some ladies, with whom you could sit during the concert.”
Cornelia made a grimace, the reverse of appreciative.
“No, thank you; I guess not! I’m not over-fond of sitting with ladies at any time, but strange ones are the limit. You tell your aunt that it’s real kind of her, and I vury much regret that I don’t want to go. I’ve fixed-up just how I’m going to spend the afternoon. First, I’m going to give you some coffee—the waiter’s bringing it along—then, when you go off to your crush, I shall get into a hansom and drive away into the City, to Saint Paul’s. The service is at four. I’ll sit right by myself, and listen till that’s over, then I’ll go round and see the tombs. Quite a number of big people are buried there, I’m told.”
“Saint Paul’s!” Guest’s tone was eloquent of amazement. “But why Saint Paul’s, of all places on earth? Why not hit on something livelier, while you are about it? There’s a splendid exhibition of paintings in Bond Street, and the Academy, of course, and the Wallace Collection—half a dozen shows which are worth seeing. Why go into the City on a day like this?”
“Because I want to! I’ve had four days cram full of—” She hesitated, seeking for a word that would not incriminate her hosts—“of fuss, and I want something else for a change. From all I hear, Saint Paul’s is a kinder big, and soothing, and empty. You can sit and think without being jostled up against someone else all the time. I don’t suppose there’s a more sociable creature on earth than I am myself, but every now and then I’ve just got to get away and have things out by myself.”
Guest sipped his coffee in thoughtful silence, glancing at Cornelia from time to time, with eyes full of a new diffidence. An impulse gripped him, an impulse so extraordinary that he hesitated to put it into words. He wanted to go to Saint Paul’s too; to drive beside Cornelia through the streets, to see her face as she sat in the dim old cathedral; that softened, tremulous face, of which he had caught a glimpse once before, the memory of which lived with him still. When the service was over, he wanted to be her guide, to climb with her the tortuous staircase, and look down on the ant-like figures in the streets below; to descend with her to the subterranean vaults. ... He, Rupert Guest, wished to visit Saint Paul’s on a grilling June afternoon, in preference to attending a fashionable rendezvous—what madness was this which possessed him? It was rank folly; he would be ashamed to put the request into words. Pshaw! it was only the impulse of a moment—he would never think of it again. Then he looked at Cornelia once more, and heard himself say, in deliberate tones—
“May I come with you? I should not interrupt. If you prefer, I could sit in another place during the service, but I’d like to come. Afterwards we could go round together. It would be good of you to give me the chance.”
“But—the reception?”
“Oh, hang the reception! I’m not sure that I should go in any ease. Do let me come, Miss Briskett. I want to. Badly!”