Mr and Mrs Herapath, like their son, were up to the business, and quietly led the way through the throng towards the hall where the speeches were to be delivered and where, as they knew by experience, it was better to look for a seat too early than too late.
Arthur and Dig, however, were by no means disposed to waste Daisy in so unprofitable an occupation, and therefore haled her off to their study. Some of us, who know the young lady, are able to excuse the pride with which these two gallant tenders towed their prize into port—for as Dig shared Arthur’s study, of course he shared his sister on this occasion. It wanted a very few dropping and facetious introductions on the way, such as, “Daisy, you know, my sister,” or “What cheer, Sherry?—ever hear of Chuckey?” or, “No good, Maple, my boy, bespoke!” to set the rumour going that Daisy Herapath, Marky’s “spoon,” was come, and was “on show” in Herapath’s study.
To her credit be it said, the young lady bore her ordeal with exemplary patience and good-humour. She liked everything she saw. She admired the study so much. What a pretty look-out on the old square—what a luxurious lunch—ah! Arthur had not forgotten her weakness for marmalade—and so on.
The boys voted her a brick; and Arthur went so far as to say he hoped she and Marky would fix it up in time for her to come and be dame of the house before he left.
All this time—would you believe it?—the poor Master of the Shell was sitting in his study, very bashful, and wondering whether he would get a chance of speaking to Daisy during the day at all. She had been spirited away from under his very eyes, in the most truculent manner, by her graceless brother; and it seemed very doubtful whether he would be allowed—
Mrs Hastings at this moment knocked at the door and handed in a dainty little note addressed to “Mark Railsford, Esquire,” from the doctor’s niece.
“Dear Mr Railsford,” wrote Miss Violet, “will you and Miss Herapath join us at lunch before the speeches? I should so like to make her acquaintance.
“Yours truly,—
“Violet Ponsford.”
So Railsford, armed with this authority, sallied forth boldly to recapture his Daisy. He thought he knew where to find her, and was not mistaken. The little impromptu lunch was in full swing when he entered the festive study. He had rarely felt so embarrassed, and the manifest excitement of his two pupils at his arrival did not tend to restore him to ease.