“The Signal, I told you. Now, don’t roll your eyes, Launa; you are not shocked, I know. What could I do? You see you would not introduce me to her; Wainbridge said he could not; Mrs. Herbert is so much married à la mode, that I, a young and innocent young man, cannot risk my slender reputation in her company. Then I thought of the Signal. Their leave was easily procured; they have no intention of paying me, and they will publish her photograph some day. Her mother was alarmed when she heard why I had come. I trotted out my cousin, Sir Anthony, and you, Launa. We had tea, and I am going again soon; perhaps they may come with me some Sunday afternoon somewhere.”
“Indefinite,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “but convincing of your affection for her. Take care.”
“Tell me about Sylvia,” said Mr. George. “Wainbridge, you know her well. Isn’t there a story attached to her?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us,” said Launa. “Do.”
“When the Coopers were well off, only two years ago, Sylvia met Lord Fairmouth. He is in Africa, or somewhere.”
“Go on,” said Launa.
“You are quite safe, I know; but that young ruffian, will he tell?”
“Tell,” repeated Mr. George. “I long to kick you down the stairs, Mr. Wainbridge. Go on.”
“Sylvia did not know he was married, and they met every day. He loved her. His wife was a woman who—”