"A half promise," she said lightly, "is surely one that can be broken."
As they passed out on to the stairs she referred the matter to the Bishop.
"You mustn't ask for my opinion," he entered into the little joke. "I'm not a believer in half measures! But if you make it a point of conscience I should say it depended upon the host."
"In that case"—McTaggart smiled—"I may consider myself absolved. It was what the Americans call 'Dutch Treat'—each to pay his own expenses."
They settled themselves at the round table, curiously inlaid with brass, smooth and innocent of cloth, where oysters in old Wedgwood plates lay on mats of Italian lace. The fruit, piled high on a centre dish—grapes with peaches and pears beneath—and the gold-flecked Venetian glass gave it a wholly foreign look. And this was emphasized by the room; the faded tapestry of the walls forming a mellow-toned background for the high-backed chairs and painted chest—once a wedding-coffer of state—and the heavy curtains of brocade, where the gold thread, tarnished, caught the light.
A perfect setting, McTaggart thought, for the fair-haired girl in her satin gown, as he watched the small patrician head bend attentive to the Bishop.
He wondered if she herself had chosen that misty, metallic blue, and the single ornament that hung from a fine gold chain around her neck. He looked at the latter with curious eyes, appreciating the design; seed pearls strung about a cross of pale and flawed emeralds, set with barbaric carelessness in the rough hand-wrought metal, and weighed down by loops of pearls, quivering with each breath she drew.
Meanwhile, the hostess was explaining the reason for the young man's visit. The Bishop, happy over his oysters, beamed his approval of the scheme.
"But who, may I ask, is to be the Prince?" His voice was sly and a twinkle gleamed in the prominent short-sighted eyes, as McTaggart, somewhat hurriedly, admitted that the part was his.
"In doublet and hose and pointed shoes. And a dreadful cap that won't stay on. You've no idea"—he turned to Cydonia—"the agony of mind it causes! Supposing—at the crucial moment"—he watched her still face as he spoke—"it tilted forward on to my nose? What a death-blow to Romance! And they won't allow me to wear an elastic, neatly fastened under my chin. And hat-pins are no earthly use. Can you suggest a remedy?"