She came closer, and a mute look in her eyes said that an Irrevocable Destiny had made of her life a Blighted Tract.
“But my cold, Caroline?” I asked consumptively.
“Oh, Rollo, you shall have hot rum directly you come in, and I’ll nurse you. Do come.”
I acceded with secret joy, on the condition of being spared the remedy she suggested.
“Then we will dine out,” I added.
We did so, in a gloomy depression of spirits that was eminently desirable. Carrie’s humor was not improved by the sight of a man at the next table, apparently chastely-minded, but who took chutney to a grilled steak. She has an instinct for dietetic refinements, and looks on culinary barbarity as worse than untruthfulness.
I had to do most of the talking, which I did, I think, in a naïve unconsciousness of the summer cloudlet that loomed glowering over the party. I spoke of youth. I said, Heaven forgive me, that it was the happiest period of life; that when the heart smiled in love the skies had a blueness; and much more of the same kind. Bassishaw grunted remarks on the Transvaal prospect, and for Carrie’s benefit muttered something about shipment of troops and leave-taking at Waterloo.
“I’m going to see about my kit to-morrow,” he added, and drank three liqueurs recklessly. Three liqueurs is a great compliment to the girl you love; four the very abandonment of careless devilry.
Carrie tried feebly to show unconcern as to their effect on his constitution, and I took coffee in huge enjoyment.
Bassishaw tipped the waiter with imprudent extravagance, hailed a passing hansom cabby—“Passing, not passing handsome,” I ventured to observe, but got no response—and magnanimously bowed Carrie and myself into the cab, saying he would follow. I told Carrie on the way that I could not have wished a more desirable brother-in-law.