"Are you going to dine?" I asked, rising. "Take this table; we're just off."
"Well, we may as well, mayn't we?" said my fiancée. "Sorry you're going though. Oh, yes, we're going to dine with Mr. Bennett Hamlyn. That's what you're for, isn't it, Mr. Hamlyn? Why, he's not listening!"
He was not, strange to say, listening, although, as a rule, he listened to Beatrice with infinite attention and the most deferential of smiles. But just now he was engaged in returning a bow which our neighbor at the next table had bestowed on him. The lady there had risen already, and was making for the door. The man lingered and looked at Hamlyn, seeming inclined to back up his bow with a few words of greeting. Hamlyn's air was not, however, encouraging, and the stranger contented himself with a nod and a careless "How are you?" and with that followed his companion. Hamlyn turned round, conscious that he had neglected Beatrice's remark, and full of penitence for his momentary neglect.
"I beg your pardon," said he, with an apologetic smile.
"Oh," answered she, "I was only saying that men like you were invented to give dinners; you're a sort of automatic feeding-machine. You ought to stand open all day. Really, I often miss you at lunch time."
"My dear Beatrice!" said Mrs. Kennett Hipgrave, with that peculiar lift of her brows that meant, "How naughty the dear child is! Oh, but how clever!"
"It's all right," said Hamlyn, meekly. "I'm awfully happy to give you a dinner, anyhow, Miss Beatrice."
Now, I had nothing to say on this subject, but I thought I would just make this remark:
"Miss Hipgrave," said I, "is very fond of a dinner."
Beatrice laughed. She understood my little correction.