“It’s not Moore and Burgess,” she replied. “It’s a ballad concert.”
“'On the banks of the Wabash far away,’” I answered. “A simple sentiment would suit me exactly this evening. Yes, I think I’ll come, thank you, Caroline.”
“I should like you to, Rol, dear, you know; but your cold——”
Of course, my cold; I didn’t know I had one, but they had made a chronic asthmatic of me lately.
“And besides, Rol, Mr. Chatterton said he might call this evening. I’m awfully sorry, dear; but can you come to-morrow to the Globe matinée?”
They knew my prospective engagements better than I knew them myself. There was a trifling foolish committee meeting toward to-morrow, and with that I had to be content.
But a tiff is the Compleat Bachelor’s opportunity, and in the invitation to Tristan I spied entertainment.
Carrie had sunk gently on my knee, and had placed a small finger through a buttonhole of my coat. Bassishaw had just called, dressed with the immaculate precision of one who has made up his mind to sulk in his stall, and had taken up a book on jurisprudence which I kept conscientiously on my table, an imposing reminiscence of my younger days. He watched Carrie furtively over the top of it.
“Please, Rol,” she said, the finger working detrimentally through the buttonhole. “You know you love Tristan, and Jean and Edouard——”
“But three cannot listen to Tristan,” I replied. “Whose hand am I to——”