“Marmaduke would never come up so slowly. He generally comes up three steps at a time.”
“Sulky after last night, no doubt. I suppose he wont speak to me.”
Marmaduke entered listlessly. “Good morning, Marian,” he said, sitting down on an uncomfortable chair. “Good morrow, Nell.”
Elinor, surprised at the courtesy, looked up and saluted him snappishly.
“Is there anything the matter, Duke?” said Marian. “Are you ill?”
“No, I’m all right. Rather busy: thats all.”
“Busy!” said Elinor. “There must be something even more unusual than that, when you are too low spirited to keep up a quarrel with me. Why dont you sit on the easy chair, or sprawl on the ottoman, after your manner?”
“Anything for a quiet life,” he replied, moving to the ottoman.
“You must be hungry,” said Marian, puzzled by his obedience. “Let me get you something.”
“No, thank you,” said Marmaduke. “I couldnt eat. Just had lunch. Ive come to pack up a few things of mine that you have here.”
“We have your banjo.”
“Oh, I dont want that. You may keep it, or put it in the fire, for all I care. I want some clothes I left behind me when we had the theatricals.”
“Are you leaving London?”
“Yes. I am getting tired of loafing about here. I think I ought to go home for a while. My mother wants me to.”
Miss McQuinch, by a subdued but expressive snort, conveyed the most entire scepticism as to his solicitude about his mother. She then turned to the piano calmly, observing, “You have probably eaten something that disagrees with you.”
“What a shame!” said Marian. “Come, Duke: I have plenty of good news for you. Nelly and I are invited to Carbury Park for the autumn; and there will be no visitors but us three. We shall have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Time enough to think of the autumn yet awhile,” said Marmaduke, gloomily.
“Well,” said Miss McQuinch, “here is some better news for you.
Constance — Lady Constance — will be in town next week.”
Marmaduke muttered something.
“I beg your pardon?” said Elinor, quickly.
“I didnt say anything.”
“I may be wrong; but I thought I heard you say ‘Hang Lady Constance!’.”
“Oh, Marmaduke!” cried Marian, affectedly. “How dare you speak so of your betrothed, sir?”
“Who says she is my betrothed?” he said, turning on her angrily.
“Why, everybody. Even Constance admits it.”
“She ought to have the manners to wait until I ask her,” he said, subsiding. “I’m not betrothed to her; and I dont intend to become so in a hurry, if I can help it. But you neednt tell your father I said so. It might get round to my governor; and then there would be a row.”
“You must marry her some day, you know,” said Elinor, maliciously.
“Must I? I shant marry at all. I’ve had enough of women.”
“Indeed? Perhaps they have had enough of you.” Marmaduke reddened. “You seem to have exhausted the joys of this world since the concert last night. Are you jealous of Mr. Conolly’s success?”
“Your by-play when you found how early it was at the end of the concert was not lost on us,” said Marian demurely. “You were going somewhere, were you not?”
“Since you are so jolly curious,” said Marmaduke, unreasonably annoyed, “I went to the theatre with Connolly; and my by-play, as you call it, simply meant my delight at finding that we could get rid of you in time to enjoy the evening.”
“With Conolly!” said Marian, interested. What kind of man is he?”
“He is nothing particular. You saw him yourself.”
“Yes. But is he well educated, and — and so forth?”
“Dont know, I’m sure. We didnt talk about mathematics and classics.”
“Well; but — do you like him?”
“I tell you I dont care a damn about him one way or the other,” said Marmaduke, rising and walking away to the window. His cousins, astonished, exchanged looks.
“Very well, Marmaduke,” said Marian softly, after a pause: “I wont tease you any more. Dont be angry.”
“You havnt teased me,” said he, coming back somewhat shamefacedly from the window. “I feel savage to-day, though there is no reason why I should not be as jolly as a shrimp. Perhaps Nelly will play some Chopin, just to soothe me. I should like to hear that polonaise again.”
“I should enjoy nothing better than taking you at your word,” said Elinor. “But I heard Mr. Lind come in, a moment ago; and he is not so fond of Chopin as you and I.”
Mr. Lind entered whilst she was speaking. He was a dignified gentleman, with delicately chiselled features and portly figure. His silky light brown hair curled naturally about his brow and set it off imposingly. His hands were white and small, with tapering fingers, and small thumbs.
“How do you do, sir?” said Marmaduke, blushing.
“Thank you: I am better than I have been.”
Marmaduke murmured congratulations, and looked at his watch as if pressed for time. “I must be off now,” he said, rising. “I was just going when you came in.”
“So soon! Well, I must not detain you, Marmaduke. I heard from your father this morning. He is very anxious to see you settled in life.”
“I suppose I shall shake down some day, sir.”
“You have very good opportunities — very exceptional opportunities. Has
Marian told you that Constance is expected to arrive in town next week?”
“Yes: we told him,” said Marian.
“He thought it too good to be true, and would hardly believe us,” added
Elinor.
Mr. Lind smiled at his nephew, happily forgetful, worldly wise as he was, of the inevitable conspiracy of youth against age. They smiled too, except Marmaduke, who, being under observation, kept his countenance like the Man in the Iron Mask. “It is quite true, my boy,” said the uncle, kindly. “But before she arrives, I should like to have a talk with you. When can you come to breakfast with me?”
“Any day you choose to name, sir. I shall be very glad.”
“Let us say tomorrow morning. Will that be too soon?”
“Not at all. It will suit me quite well. Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening to you.”
When Marmaduke was in the street, he stood for a while considering which way to go. Before the arrival of his uncle, he had intended to spend the afternoon with his cousins. He was now at a loss for a means of killing time. On one point he was determined. There was a rehearsal that day at the Bijou Theatre; and thither, at least, he would not go. He drove to Charing Cross, and drifted back to Leicester Square. He turned away from the theatre, and wandered down Piccadilly. Then he thought he would return as far as the Criterion, and drink. Finally he arrived at the stage door of the Bijou Theatre, and inquired whether the rehearsal was over.
“Theyve bin at it since eleven this