“Please do not speak of it to-day, Mr. Belden,” she thought proper to say to him, “but you will be glad to know that Diana and your friend, Mr. Dunstan, are engaged. It is an old affair revived. It began in Texas a long time ago.”
Belden, with his usual self-possession, said what was friendly and commonplace on such occasions. Clara was almost deceived. She could not hear the monosyllable he sent out with a blast, as he turned toward Mrs. De Flournoy.
Admiral Mrs. Wilkes re-embarked her party for the moonlight sail. Except Diana’s accident, which that lady made light of to the happy chaperon, everything had gone on and off most prosperously. It was whispered that Titania had accepted Mr. Nicholas Bottom, the millionaire; and poor Cinderella, whom the hostess feared might be neglected, had been walking all day and picking buttercups with Mr. Oberon, the genius.
So with the faint breeze of a silent night of summer, they drifted across the bay, away along the path of moonlight. Song and gay hail and answer passed from boat to boat of the flotilla. Delicious night! Happy world! Fortunate Miss Milly Center, with such a joyous birthday! Kind Mrs. Wilkes! Universal success! Huzza!
At the Millard, Mr. Waddy and Peter Skerrett found Mr. Budlong just arrived. He came up to them with his now anxious manner.
“That beggar of a Frenchman has come home pretty well bunged up,” he said. “He has sent word that he wants to see me. I wish you would go, Peter, my boy, and talk to him. I can’t guess what it means. If he wants to borrow money, lend him.”
Mrs. Budlong came in with Belden. She gave her husband a couple of fingers of welcome. Millard’s band was playing and she, with several other untiring females, organised a hop.
Peter Skerrett went off to see De Châteaunéant. It was late when he came down. He found Mr. Waddy waiting on the piazza, his cigar oddly lurid in the mosquitoless moonlight.
“He makes conditions,” said Peter, “the infernal shabby wretch! He says if they don’t give him Miss Arabella, he’ll expose Mrs. Budlong. He pretends to have proofs; and I’m sorry to say that I fear he has them. I could have beaten him to death, the contemptible cuss! if he hadn’t been lying there in bed, sick and swelled like a pumpkin. He can’t show to-morrow and we shall have all day to work.”
“He’ll sell out, won’t he, Peter?” asked Mr. Waddy. “I haven’t contributed to foreign missions yet, and here’s an opportunity. We’ll try and arrange it to-morrow.”