“It is impossible for me to entertain at home, and it is quite time that you dined with me for a change. I have been your guest for about fifty Sunday-night suppers.”
“Cold roast beef and beetroot in winter; cold lamb and mint-sauce in summer! There is an appalling lack of variety in the menus of an English household,” said Madge, with an expressive grimace. “When I am married I shall make a point of serving my loved one with constant surprises.”
“You will find it more difficult than painting pictures. What is one to do in winter, when poultry is so dear and none of the nice spring things have come in?” queried the dear, literal Martha, looking straight at the Hermit as she spoke, as if asking him to vindicate her housekeeping abilities; the which he proceeded to do with a zeal untempered by knowledge, while Hope studied his face with anxious eyes, and Madge sat silent, a monument of long-chinned solemnity.
No further objections were made to the Hermit’s invitation—which, in truth, was too tempting to be refused—and the next morning was spent in hunting up old fineries, turning ribbons, washing laces, and sewing them on again in as near an imitation of the latest Parisian fashion as could be obtained with insufficient quantities and ’prentice fingers.
“To think that it is eighteen months since I wore an evening-dress!” sighed Madge tragically. “Do you remember how I talked of holding a salon for all the greatest intellects in London! It is rather a come-down to reflect that the Hermit is the only youngish man who has crossed this threshold since we came. And he is no good to me either, for”—She looked round the room to make sure that Philippa was not present. “I’ll tell you a secret, Theo. He is—not falling—he could not do anything so precipitate—but crawling in love with Phil; but he will never find it out unless somebody tells him!”
“I’ll tell you another stale item. Phil is crawling in love with him too; but wild horses wouldn’t make her confess it. If he ever winds himself up to proposing, she will refuse him for the sake of the family and never say a word about it, but only snap off our heads, and grow so cross and cantankerous that there will be no living with her.”
This from Theo. The other ungrateful sister shrugged her shoulders and exclaimed, “What a nuisance it is when people will make martyrs of themselves! Now, it would really be very nice if Phil lived on the next landing, and could run in and out half-a-dozen times a day; and though the Hermit is not my passion, he is a worthy old thing, and would make a devoted husband. It strikes me, my dear, that you and I will have to take this matter in hand. It is no use asking Hope. She has grown so proper lately that I am quite afraid of her.”
“Oh no, we won’t ask Hope!” said Theo quickly. “But really it would be rather fun to see what we could do—as good as a story in real life. The first step is to make them aware of their own feelings. But how is it to be done?”
“We might try jealousy. How would it be if I flirted with him violently under her very eyes?”
“He would be horribly bored, without understanding in the least what you were trying to do, and Phil would forbid him the house in case you were blighted in your youthful affections.”