“But you,” I said, bending to her ear, “is it Fitzhugh, Dorothy?”
I heard her laugh softly.
“No,” said she, “I thought you might divine, sir.”
Was it possible? And yet she had played so much with me that I dared not risk the fire. She had too many accomplished gallants at her feet to think of Richard, who had no novelty and no wit. I sat still, barely conscious of the rising and falling voices beyond the footlights, feeling only her living presence at my side. She spoke not another word until the playhouse servants had relighted the chandeliers, and Dr. Courtenay came in, flushed with triumph, for his mead of praise.
“And how went it, Miss Manners?” says he, very confident.
“Why, you fell over the orchard wall, doctor,” retorts my lady. “La! I believe I could have climbed it better myself.”
And all he got was a hearty laugh for his pains, Mr. Marmaduke joining in from the back of the box. And the story was at the Coffee House early on the morrow.
CHAPTER XI. A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING
My grandfather and I were seated at table together. It was early June, the birds were singing in the garden, and the sweet odours of the flowers were wafted into the room.