"Do you know, Mrs. Armstrong," says Everard presently, when the stiffness due to their first appearance has worn off, "you were very near not having the pleasure of our society this afternoon. It was touch and go with you, I can tell you, five minutes ago."
"How was that, Mr. Everard?"
"Why, just outside your gate we came full tilt against Lady Crawford's equipage, coming out, and I turned to Cecil and said, 'My boy, if we're wise, we shall beat a retreat, for I expect we've not a shred of character left;' but he, fearless in his innocence, callous to the breath of calumny, urged me onward. What are you laughing at? Mrs. Armstrong, Miss Lefroy, I was right; she did backbite me—said something about me—eh?"
"'Conscience makes cowards of us all,' Mr. Everard," says Addie. "I do not say Lady Crawford mentioned your name."
"Oh, but she did!" he persists, in an anguish of apprehension. "I can see it in both your faces; I know she did. Miss Lefroy"—turning a crimson face and pair of imploring blue eyes to that young lady—"say you don't believe a word she said. Don't judge me on her report; every one knows that she's the most infer—I mean outrageous gossipmonger, the most extravagant—"
"Mr. Everard, Mr. Everard," laughs Pauline, "you are putting your foot deeper and deeper into the mire with every word! If you go on longer in that strain, I shall be inclined to believe that you are a villain of the deepest stage-dye."
"Turn your eyes my way, Miss Lefroy," pleads Mr. Cecil Dawson, a handsome saucy Oxonian. "I challenge your closest scrutiny. Gaze into my limpid countenance, and tell me can you detect therein the faintest trace of uneasiness or apprehension? Could anything be more calm, more effulgent with the glow of seraphic virtue and—and—"
"Inordinate conceit! No, Mr. Dawson. I think not."
He draws himself up in mock indignation, and then, deeming it wiser to leave the field to his more eligible cousin, strolls languidly over to Addie, whom he seeks, with but scant success, to entice into a light flirtation, that young person being quite unversed in the art of persiflage or delicately-flavored "chaff" in which he excels.
"You'll tell me what she said, won't you, Miss Lefroy?" implores Everard, hanging ardently over the low chair where Pauline sits diligently working in the breast of a crewel-stork. "You'll give a fellow a chance, won't you? In common fairness you must. Just an idea, a hint—that's all I want—and I'll make her eat her own words—by Jove, I will! Tell me, tell me!"