“If you have such a passion for her, why not propose?” it was asked of Mr. Tandy.
“Propose! propose to a Russian Archduchess,” cries young Tandy. “She’s beautiful, she’s delightful, she’s witty. I have never seen anything like her eyes; they send me wild—wild,” says Tandy—(slapping his waistcoat under Temple Bar)—“but a more audacious little flirt never existed since the days of Cleopatra.”
With this opinion likewise in my mind, I had been looking on during Clive’s proceedings with Miss Ethel—not, I say, without admiration of the young lady who was leading him such a dance. The waltz over, I congratulated him on his own performance. His Continental practice had greatly improved him. “And as for your partner, it is delightful to see her,” I went on. “I always like to be by when Miss Newcome dances. I had sooner see her than anybody since Taglioni. Look at her now, with her neck up, and her little foot out, just as she is preparing to start! Happy Lord Bustington!”
“You are angry with her because she cut you,” growls Clive. “You know you said she cut you, or forgot you; and your vanity’s wounded, that is why you are so satirical.”
“How can Miss Newcome remember all the men who are presented to her?” says the other. “Last year she talked to me because she wanted to know about you. This year she doesn’t talk: because I suppose she doesn’t want to know about you any more.”
“Hang it. Do—on’t, Pen,” cries Clive, as a schoolboy cries out to another not to hit him.
“She does not pretend to observe: and is in full conversation with the amiable Bustington. Delicious interchange of noble thoughts! But she is observing us talking, and knows that we are talking about her. If ever you marry her, Clive, which is absurd, I shall lose you for a friend. You will infallibly tell her what I think of her: and she will order you to give me up.” Clive had gone off in a brown study, as his interlocutor continued. “Yes, she is a flirt. She can’t help her nature. She tries to vanquish every one who comes near her. She is a little out of breath from waltzing, and so she pretends to be listening to poor Bustington, who is out of breath too, but puffs out his best in order to make himself agreeable, with what a pretty air she appears to listen! Her eyes actually seem to brighten.”
“What?” says Clive, with a start.
I could not comprehend the meaning of the start: nor did I care much to know: supposing that the young man was waking up from some lover’s reverie: and the evening sped away, Clive not quitting the ball until Miss Newcome and the Countess of Kew had departed. No further communication appeared to take place between the cousins that evening. I think it was Captain Crackthorpe who gave the young lady an arm into her carriage; Sir John Fobsby having the happiness to conduct the old Countess, and carrying the pink bag for the shawls, wrappers, etc., on which her ladyship’s coronet and initials are emblazoned. Clive may have made a movement as if to step forward, but a single finger from Miss Newcome warned him back.
Clive and his two friends in Lamb Court had made an engagement for the next Saturday to dine at Greenwich; but on the morning of that day there came a note from him to say that he thought of going down to see his aunt, Miss Honeyman, and begged to recall his promise to us. Saturday is a holiday with gentlemen of our profession. We had invited F. Bayham, Esquire, and promised ourselves a merry evening, and were unwilling to baulk ourselves of the pleasure on account of the absence of our young Roman. So we three went to London Bridge Station at an early hour, proposing to breathe the fresh air of Greenwich Park before dinner. And, at London Bridge, by the most singular coincidence, Lady Kew’s carriage drove up to the Brighton entrance, and Miss Ethel and her maid stepped out of the brougham.