“Exactly. Play them a bit. I congratulate you, Colonel, on having—er—brought out Mrs. Gervase.”
“Oh,” he replied, “she’s only a child, of course, widow or no widow; but she’ll make a fine woman, Butterfield.”
I would have given much that Emily Gervase should have heard herself set down a child. The Colonel, unconsciously, had in his hand the opportunity for complete and sweeping revenge.
It was my fortune to be present when Mrs. Gervase, doubtless after deep consideration, made the next move. We were to call on Mrs. Charlie Vicars—or rather, Coke was to call, and persuaded me along with him.
“Mrs. Chatterton said you wouldn’t mind, Butterfield,” he said; “and, by Gad, I can’t keep two of them going.”
“You undervalue yourself, Coke,” I said. “But I’ll come.”
And so we found ourselves in the æstheticism of Mrs. Vicars’s drawing-room. That lady found means to entertain me, while Coke applied himself to the creation of a conversational warmth that should induce the unfolding of the timid bud by his side.
“Col. Coke seems to have taken quite a fancy to Emily, Mr. Butterfield?” said Mrs. Charlie interrogatively.
“It is a pretty sight, Mrs. Vicars,” I replied. “The scarred veteran in the evening of his life, his grim battles behind him, returning to take a younger generation on his knee——”
Mrs. Vicars looked round in alarm.