“We will, indeed,” said the very clever lady. And I must tell you that as she said good-bye to her, she kissed Mrs. Budd!
Kent turned to Pix—Farleigh had gone on ahead of them, rather swiftly, down the stairs. “Pix, I—you—it’s all your affair,” he stammered unevenly, “I——”
“Tut, my dear boy!” Pix waved aside the words, though he gripped the proffered hand and wrung it. “I’m twice as pleased as you are. I never do things unselfishly, you know—I’m purely a philanthropist.
“By the way,” added Pix carelessly, watching Chalmers from behind his monocle as they came out into the street, “who’s this man who’s been detaining you all the time at the Club?”
“That,” said Kent, stepping into the car beside Farleigh, “is a gentleman who has been trying to get my opinion on a Secretaryship in London. I just told him, this afternoon: yes.”
VIII
RICHARD—NO MORE THAN A KING
Into the mysterious shadows of the grey-cloistered chapel, the Court in all its ceremony was disappearing—all except the newest Maid of Honor, who, after one glance back at the sunset, shook her curls rebelliously, and deliberately stayed behind in the rose-garden!
“I just won’t go to vespers,” declared the Maid of Honor wilfully; “and what’s more”—darting after two other stragglers in the procession—“you sha’n’t go either.” She laid a compelling hand on a little old person in rose and silver, and a very magnificent person in black velvet and pumps. “It’s a perfect sacrilege to pray any more to-day. Besides, don’t you know we’ve got to talk? To talk about him?” And she shook her small fist threateningly after the departing monarch.
“It is a fine evening,” conceded the little old person weakly; already she had arranged her brocade and laces against the quaint primness of an ancient stone settle.
“And—er—no sense, really, in making Sunday too shocking a misfortune,” abetted the magnificent person, enjoying the effect of himself under the glowing luxuriance of a canopy of Maréchal Niels. “Fact is, the King——”