"Why, yes, John Drogue," she said; and I saw the smile glimmer ere it dawned.
And now comes my Lady Johnson and her Abagail for a dish of tea on the veranda, where a rustic table was soon spread by Colas, very fine in his scarlet waistcoat and a new scratch-wig.
Now, to tea, comes sauntering our precious plague of suitors, one by one, and two by two, from the camp on the mainland. And all around they sit them down—with ceremony, it's true, but their manners found no favour with me either. And I thought of Ulysses, and of the bow that none save he could bend.
Well, there was ceremony, as I say, and some subdued gaiety, not too marked, in deference to Lady Johnson's political condition.
There was tea, which our officers and I forbore to taste, making a civil jest of refusal. But there was an eggnog for us, and a cooled punch, and a syllabub and cakes.
Toward sundown a young officer brought his fiddle from camp and played prettily enough.
Others sang in acceptable harmony a catch or two, and a romantic piece for concerted voices, which I secretly thought silly, yet it pleased Lady Johnson.
Then, at Claudia's request, Penelope sang a French song made in olden days. And I thought it a little sad, but very sweet to hear there in the gathering dusk.
Other officers came up in the growing darkness, paid their respects, tasted the punch. Candles glimmered in the Summer House. Shadowy forms arrived and departed or wandered over the grassy slope along the water.
I missed Claudia. Later, I saw Penelope rise and give her hand to a man who came stalking up in a watch cloak; and presently they strolled away over the lawn, with her arm resting on his.