"Come up at six. You'll be all right, then, in any case."
Lord Hartledon left the Temple, and sauntered towards home. He had no engagement on hand—nothing to kill time. He and his wife were falling naturally into the way of—as he had just cynically styled it—fashionable people. She went her way and he went his.
Many a cabman held up his hand or his whip; but in his present mood walking was agreeable to him: why should he hurry home, when he had nothing on earth to do there? So he stared here, and gazed there, and stopped to speak to this acquaintance, and walked a few steps with that, went into his club for ten minutes, and arrived home at last.
His wife's carriage was at the door waiting for her. She was bound on an expedition to Chiswick: Lord Hartledon had declined it. He met her hastening out as he entered, and she was looking very cross.
"How late you are going, Maude!"
"Yes, there has been a mistake," she said peevishly, turning in with him to a small room they used as a breakfast-room. "I have been waiting all this time for Lady Langton, and she, I find, has been waiting for me. I'm now going round to take her up. Oh, I have secured that opera-box, Val, but at an extravagant price, considering the little time that remains of the season."
"What opera-box?"
"Didn't I tell you? It's one I heard of yesterday. I was not going again to put up with the wretched little box they palmed you off with. I did tell you that."
"It was the only one I could get, Maude: there was no other choice."
"Yes, I know. Well, I have secured another for the rest of the season, and you must not talk about extravagance, please."