in evidence, as were also the Accringtons, the Charnwoods, and the Seftons. Lady Sefton, dear creature that she was! had spoken with the greatest kindness to Arabella, and had promised later on to send her a voucher admitting her to Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Lady Bridlington felt that her cup was full. It was to overflow. Last of all the guests, arriving after eleven o’clock, when her ladyship, having long since released Arabella from her place at her side, was on the point of abandoning her post and joining her guests in the drawing-rooms, Mr. Beaumaris arrived, and came unhurriedly up the stairs. Her ladyship awaited him with a bosom swelling beneath its rich covering of purple satin, and her hand, clasping her fan, trembling slightly under the influence of the accumulated triumphs of this night. He greeted her with his cool civility, and she replied with tolerable composure, thanking him for his kind offices, in Leicestershire, towards her goddaughter.
“A pleasure, ma’am,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “I trust Miss Tallant reached town without further mishap?”
“Oh, yes, indeed! So obliging of you to have called to enquire after her! We were sorry to have been out. You will find Miss Tallant in one of the rooms. Your cousin, Lady Wainfleet, too, is here.”
He bowed and followed her into the front drawing-room. A minute later, Arabella, enjoying the attentions of Lord Fleetwood, Mr. Warkworth, and Mr. Epworth, saw him coming towards her across the room, pausing once or twice on his way to exchange salutations with his friends. Until that moment she had thought Mr. Epworth quite the best-dressed man present: indeed, she had been quite dazzled by the exquisite nature of his raiment, and the profusion of rings, pins, fobs, chains, and seals which he wore; but no sooner had she clapped eyes on Mr. Beaumaris’s tall, manly figure than she realized that Mr. Epworth’s wadded shoulders, wasp-waist, and startling waistcoat were perfectly ridiculous. Nothing could have been in greater contrast to the extravagance of his attire than Mr. Beaumaris’s blackcoat and pantaloons, his plain white waistcoat, the single fob that hung to one side of it, the single pearl set chastely in the intricate folds of his necktie. Nothing he wore was designed to attract attention, but he made every other man in the room look either a trifle overdressed or a trifle shabby.
He reached her side, and smiled, and when she put out her hand raised it fleetingly to his lips. “How do you do, Miss Tallant?” he said. “I am happy indeed to have been granted this opportunity of renewing my acquaintance with you.”
“Oh, it is too bad—a great deal too bad!” fluted Mr. Epworth, rolling an arch eye at Arabella. “You and Fleetwood have stolen a march on the rest of us, you know—a shameful thing, ’pon my soul!”
Mr. Beaumaris glanced down at him from his superior height, seemed to debate within himself whether this, sally was worth the trouble of a reply, to decide that it was not, and turned back to Arabella. “You must tell me how you like London,” he said. “It is abundantly plain that London likes you! May I procure you a glass of lemonade?”
This offer brought Arabella’s chin up, and made her look at him with a distinct challenge in her eyes. She had had plenty of time to discover that it was not the common practice of hosts to sweep the wine from their tables at the end of the first course, and she strongly suspected Mr. Beaumaris of quizzing her. He was looking perfectly grave, however, and met her eyes without a shadow of mockery in his own. Before she could answer him, Lord Fleetwood committed a strategical error, and exclaimed: “Of course! I’ll swear you are parched with thirst, ma’am! I will get you a glass immediately!”
“Splendid, Charles!” said Mr. Beaumaris cordially. “Do let me take you a little out of this crush, Miss Tallant!”
He seemed to take her acquiescence for granted, for he did not await, a reply, but led her to where a sofa standing against one wall was momentarily unoccupied. How he contrived to find a way through the crowd of chattering guests was a mystery to Arabella, for he certainly did not force a passage. A touch on a man’s shoulder, a bow and a smile to a lady, and the thing was done. He sat down beside her on the sofa, seated a little sideways, so that he could watch her face, one hand on the back of the sofa, the other playing idly with his quizzing-glass. “Does it come up to your expectations, ma’am?” he asked smilingly.
“London? Yes, indeed!” she responded. “I am sure I was never so happy in my life!”
“I am glad,” he said.
Arabella remembered that Lady Bridlington had warned her against betraying too much enthusiasm: it was unfashionable to appear pleased. She remembered, also that she had promised not to make a bad impression on Mr. Beaumaris, so she added in a languid tone: “It is a shocking squeeze, of course, but it is always diverting to meet new people.”
He looked amused, and said with a laugh in his voice: “No, don’t spoil it! Your first answer was charming.”
She eyed him doubtfully for a moment; then her irrepressible dimples peeped out “But it is only rustics who own to enjoyment, sir!”
“Is it?” he returned.
“You, I am persuaded, do not enjoy such an Assembly as this!”
“You are mistaken: my enjoyment depends on the company in which I find myself.”
“That,” said Arabella naively, having thought it over, “is quite the prettiest thing that has been said to me tonight!”
“Then I can only suppose, Miss Tallant, that Fleetwood and Warkworth were unable to find words to express their appreciation of the exquisite picture you present. Strange! I formed the opinion that they were paying you all manner of compliments.”
She laughed out at that. “Yes, but it was nonsense! I did not believe a word they said!”
“I hope you believe what
The light tone he used seemed to belie his words. Arabella found him baffling, and directed another of her speculative glances at him. She decided that he must be answered in kind, and said daringly: “Are you being so obliging as to bring me into fashion, Mr. Beaumaris?”
He let his eyes travel round the crowded room, his brows a little raised. “You do not appear to me to stand in any need of my assistance, ma’am.” He perceived that Lord Fleetwood was edging his way past a knot of people, a glass in his hand, and waited for him to reach the sofa. “Thank you, Charles,” he said coolly, taking the glass from his lordship, and presenting it to Arabella.
“You,” said Lord Fleetwood, with deep feeling, “will receive a message from me in the morning, Robert! This is the most barefaced piracy I ever beheld in my life! Miss Tallant, I wish you will send this fellow about his business: his effrontery goes beyond what is allowable!”
“You must learn not to act on impulse,” said Mr. Beaumaris kindly. “A moment’s reflection, the least touch of adroitness, and it would have been I who fetched the lemonade and you who had the privilege of sitting beside Miss Tallant on this sofa!”
“But it is Lord Fleetwood who earns my gratitude, for he was the more chivalrous!” said Arabella,
“Miss Tallant, I thank you!”
“You have certainly been amply rewarded, and have now nothing to do but to take yourself off,” said Mr. Beaumaris.
“Not for the world!” declared his lordship.
Mr. Beaumaris sighed. “How often I have had to deplore your lack of tact!” he said.
Arabella, sparkling under the influence of all this exciting banter, raised her posy to her nose, and said, with a grateful look cast up at Fleetwood: “I stand
“No, no, it is I who stand in yours, ma’am, since you deigned to accept my poor tribute!”
Mr. Beaumaris glanced at the posy, and smiled slightly, but said nothing. Arabella, catching sight of Mr. Epworth, who was hovering hopefully in the vicinity, suddenly said: “Mr. Beaumaris, who
He looked round, but said: “There are so many oddly dressed men present, Miss Tallant, that I fear I am at a loss. You do not mean poor Fleetwood here?”
“Of course I do not!” exclaimed Arabella indignantly.
“Well, I am sure it would be difficult to find anything odder than that waistcoat he wears. It is very disheartening, for I have really expended a great deal of time in trying to reform his taste. Ah, I think I see whom you must mean! That, Miss Tallant, is Horace Epworth. In his own estimation, he undoubtedly personifies a set of creatures whom I have reason to believe you despise.”
Blushing hotly, Arabella asked: “Is he a—a dandy?”
“He would certainly like you to think so.”
