“I shall see her then?”
“If you give me your promise.”
“I do! I do!”
The next course came in. Sir Patrick entered on the question of the merits of the partridge, viewed as an eatable bird, “By himself, Arnold—plainly roasted, and tested on his own merits—an overrated bird. Being too fond of shooting him in this country, we become too fond of eating him next. Properly understood, he is a vehicle for sauce and truffles—nothing more. Or no—that is hardly doing him justice. I am bound to add that he is honorably associated with the famous French receipt for cooking an olive. Do you know it?”
There was an end of the bird; there was an end of the jelly. Arnold got his next chance—and took it.
“What is to be done in London to-morrow?” he asked.
“To-morrow,” answered Sir Patrick, “is a memorable day in our calendar. To-morrow is Tuesday—the day on which I am to see Miss Silvester.”
Arnold set down the glass of wine which he was just raising to his lips.
“After what has happened,” he said, “I can hardly bear to hear her name mentioned. Miss Silvester has parted me from my wife.”
“Miss Silvester may atone for that, Arnold, by uniting you again.”