Pen with ineffable good-humour took a glass—he didn’t mind what it was—he was content to drink after the ladies; and he filled it with frothing lukewarm beer, which he pronounced to be delicious, and which he drank cordially to the health of the party.
As he was drinking and talking on in an engaging manner, a young lady in a shot dove-coloured dress, with a white parasol lined with pink, and the prettiest dove-coloured boots that ever stepped, passed by Pen, leaning on the arm of a stalwart gentleman with a military moustache.
The young lady clenched her little fist, and gave a mischievous side-look as she passed Pen. He of the mustachios burst out into a jolly laugh. He had taken off his hat to the ladies of cab No. 2002. You should have seen Fanny Bolton’s eyes watching after the dove-coloured young lady. Immediately Huxter perceived the direction which they took, they ceased looking after the dove-coloured nymph, and they turned and looked into Sam Huxter’s orbs with the most artless good-humoured expression.
“What a beautiful creature!” Fanny said. “What a lovely dress! Did you remark, Mr. Sam, such little, little hands?”
“It was Capting Strong,” said Mrs. Bolton: “and who was the young woman, I wonder?”
“A neighbour of mine in the country—Miss ‘Amory,’” Arthur said,—“Lady Clavering’s daughter. You’ve seen Sir Francis often in Shepherd’s Inn, Mrs. Bolton.”
As he spoke, Fanny built up a perfect romance in three volumes—love—faithlessness—splendid marriage at St. George’s, Hanover Square—broken-hearted maid—and Sam Huxter was not the hero of that story—poor Sam, who by this time had got out an exceedingly rank Cuba cigar, and was smoking it under Fanny’s little nose.
After that confounded prig Pendennis joined and left the party, the sun was less bright to Sam Huxter, the sky less blue—the Sticks had no attraction for him—the bitter beer hot and undrinkable—the world was changed. He had a quantity of peas and a tin pea-shooter in the pocket of the cab for amusement on the homeward route. He didn’t take them out, and forgot their existence until some other wag, on their return from the races, fired a volley into Sam’s sad face; upon which salute, after a few oaths indicative of surprise, he burst into a savage and sardonic laugh.
But Fanny was charming all the way home. She coaxed, and snuggled, and smiled. She laughed pretty laughs; she admired everything; she took out the darling little Jack-in-the-boxes, and was so obliged to Sam. And when they got home, and Mr. Huxter, still with darkness on his countenance, was taking a frigid leave of her—she burst into tears, and said he was a naughty unkind thing.
Upon which, with a burst of emotion almost as emphatic as hers, the young surgeon held the girl in his arms—swore that she was an angel, and that he was a jealous brute; owned that he was unworthy of her, and that he had no right to hate Pendennis; and asked her, implored her, to say once more that she——