When rubbers end at past ten o'clock at night, well-bred people wait for their host to suggest beginning another. Ill-bred ones, that don't want one, say suddenly that it must be getting late—as if Time had slapped them—and get at their watches. Those that do, say that that clock is fast. In the present case no disposition existed, after a good deal of travelling, to play cards till midnight. But there was no occasion to hustle the visitor downstairs.
Said Miss Dickenson, to concede a short breathing pause:—"Pray, Mr. Pellew, when a gentleman accidentally leaves a book at your rooms, do you make no effort to return it to him?"
"Well!" said Mr. Pellew, tacitly admitting the implied impeachment. "It is rather a jolly shame, when you come to think of it. I'll take it round to him to-morrow. Gloucester Place, is it—or York Place—end of Baker Street?... Can't remember the fillah's name to save my life. Married a Miss Bergstein—rich bankers. Got his card at home, I expect. However, that's where he lives—York Place. He's a Sir Somebody Something.... What were you going to say?"
"Oh—nothing.... Only that it would have been very interesting to read that account. However, Sir Somebody Something must be wanting his Quarterly Review.... Never mind!"
Gwen said:—"What nonsense! He's bought another copy by this time. He can afford it, if he's married a Miss Bergstein. Bring it round to-morrow, Percy, to keep Aunt Constance quiet. We shan't take her with us to see Clo's little boy. We should make too many." Then, in order to minimise his visit next day, Mr. Pellew sketched a brief halt in Cavendish Square at half-past three precisely to-morrow afternoon, when Miss Dickenson could "run her eye" through the disintegration of that Egyptian King, without interfering materially with its subsequent delivery at Sir Somebody Something's. It was an elaborate piece of humbug, welcomed with perfect gravity as the solution of a perplexing and difficult problem. Which being so happily solved, Mr. Pellew could take his leave, and did so.
"Didn't I do that capitally, Clo?"
"Do which, dear?"
"Why—making her stop here to see him. Or giving her leave to stop; it's the same thing, only she would rather do it against her will. I mean saying we should make too many at Scraps Court, or whatever it is."
"Oh yes—quite a stroke of genius! Gwen dear, what an inveterate matchmaker you are!"
"Nonsense, Clo! I never...." Here Gwen hung fire for a moment, confronted by an intractability of language. She took the position by storm, more suo:—"I never mutchmoke in my life.... What?—Well, you may laugh, Clo, but I never did! Only when two fools irritate one by not flying into each other's arms, and wanting to all the time.... Oh, it's exasperating, and I've no patience!"