Charles Strange rose. Mrs. Guy lifted her finger, and he bent down to her. Blanche was still at the window.
"She does not know he has sold out," warningly breathed Mrs. Guy. "She knows nothing of his wild ways, or the fine market he has brought his eggs to, poor fellow. We have kept it from her."
Charles nodded; and the servant opened the door with another announcement.
"Captain Heriot." Blanche flew across the room and was locked in her brother's arms.
Poor Tom Heriot had indeed, as Mrs. Guy expressed it, with more force than elegance, brought his eggs to a fine market. It was some few months now since he sold out of the Army; and what he was doing and how he contrived to exist and flourish without money, his friends did not know. During the spring he had made his appearance in Paris to prefer an appeal for help to Charles, and Charles had answered it to the extent of his power.
Just as gay, just as light-hearted, just as débonnaire as ever was Tom Heriot. To see him and to hear him as he sat this evening with them in Gloucester Place, you might have thought him as free from care as an Eton boy—as flourishing as a duke-royal. Little blame to Blanche that she suspected nothing of the existing state of things.
When Charles rose to say "Good-night," Tom Heriot said it also, and they went away together.
"Charley, lad," said the latter, as the street-door closed behind them, "could you put me up at your place for two nights—until after this wedding is over?"
"To be sure I can. Leah will manage it."
"All right. I have sent a portmanteau there."