“And the second pint of Chambertin at dinner,” finished Morris, as Miss Wood—the toilette and her confidence both completed—slipped her perfectly gloved hand into Andy’s arm again.
Precisely, then, three sharp notes of the cornet cut through the stillness under the flowers. It was followed by the indescribable sound, made only by the rush of many female trains towards one spot. Like the chronicled war-horse, Andy shook his mane at the first note; Miss Wood nodded beamingly over her shoulder at the second; and the pair were hastening off by the time the third died away.
Blanche showed no disposition to take the vacated seat.
“The German is forming,” she said, “and I am engaged to that colt-like Mr. Upton.”
Only at the door of the conservatory she paused.
“Does Mr. Browne ever drink too much wine?” she asked abruptly.
Van never hesitated one second. He lied loyally. “Why, never, of course,” he deprecated, in the most natural tone. “With rare exceptions. But what deucedly sharp eyes she has,” he added, mentally, as Mr. Upton informed them that “the bell had tapped,” and took Blanche off.
Almost at the same moment, a waiter rushed by with a wine-cooler and glasses; and he heard the pompous butler direct:
“Set it by Mr. Browne’s chair. He leads in ler curtillyun!”