"At this rate, goodness only knows when you'll ever get home," he said to her. "You should have stopped at the theatre."
"Oh, I don't mind," said she, cheerfully. "It's an adventure. It's something to be talked of afterwards. I shouldn't wonder if the theatrical papers got hold of it—just the kind of paragraph to go the round—Harry Thornhill and Grace Mainwaring lost in a fog together. No, I don't mind. I'm very well off. But fancy some of those poor girls about the theatre, who must be trying to get home on foot. No four-wheeled cabs for them; no companion to keep up their spirits. I sha'n't forget your kindness, Mr. Moore."
Indeed, Lionel was much more anxious than she was. He would rather have done without that paragraph in the newspapers. All his senses were on the rack; and yet he could make out absolutely nothing of his whereabouts in this formless void of a world, with its opaque atmosphere, its distant calls, inquiries, warnings, its murky lamp-lights that only became visible when they were over one's head. Miss Burgoyne seemed to be well content, to be amused even. She liked to see her name in the newspapers. There would be a pretty little paragraph to get quoted in gossippy columns, even if she and her more anxious fellow-adventurer did not reach home till breakfast-time.
The link-boys certainly deserved the very substantial reward that Lionel bestowed on them; for when, after what seemed interminable hours—with all kinds of stoppages and inquiries in this Egyptian darkness—the cab came to a final halt, and when Miss Burgoyne had been piloted across the pavement, she declared that here, indubitably, was her own door. Indeed, at this
very moment it was opened, and there was a glimmer of a candle in the passage.
"No, Mr. Moore," she said, distinctly, when Lionel came back after paying the cabman, "you are not going off like that, certainly not. You must be starving; you must come up-stairs and have something to eat and drink." "Jim," she said, addressing her brother, who was standing there, candle in hand, "have you left any supper for us?"
"I haven't touched a thing yet," said he. "I've been waiting for you I don't know how long."
"There's a truly heroic brother!" exclaimed the young lady, as she pulled Lionel into the little lobby and shut the door. "What's enough for two is enough for three. Come along, Mr. Moore; and now you've got safely into a house, I think you'd much better have Jim's room for the night—or the morning, rather? I'm sure Jim won't mind taking the sofa."
"I? Not I!" said her brother, blowing out the candle as they entered the lamp-lit room.
It was a pretty room, and, with its blazing fire, looked very warm and snug after the cold, raw night without. Miss Burgoyne threw off her cloak and hat, and set to work to supplement the supper that was already laid on the central table. Her brother Jim—who was a dawdling, good-natured-looking lad of about fifteen, clad in a marvellous costume of cricketing trousers, a "blazer" of overpowering blue and yellow stripes, and an Egyptian fez set far back on his forehead—helped her to explore the contents of the cupboard; and very soon the three of them were seated at a comfortable and most welcome little banquet. Indeed, the charming little feast was almost sumptuous; insomuch that Lionel was inclined to ask himself whether Miss Burgoyne, who was an astute young lady, had not foreseen the possibility of this small supper-party before leaving home in the afternoon. The ousters, for example: did Miss Burgoyne order a dozen ousters for herself alone every evening?—for her brother declared that he never touched, and would not touch, any such thing. Lionel observed that his own photograph, which he had recently given her, had been accorded the place of honor on the mantel-shelf; another portrait of him, which she had bought, stood on the piano. But why these trivial suspicions, when she was so kind and hospitable and considerate?