want to see them married! Nothing less will satisfy me.” She glanced at Lady Hazel quizzically. “Have I gone too far, Lady Hazel?”
Hazel smiled, but shook her head. “We mustn’t hope for too much,” she cautioned. “It will be enough to see Gwen overcome her bitterness and to restore Lord Jamison to the good graces of society.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Hetty said, sighing. “But I don’t see how we’re to bring even that to pass.”
“Well, you see, I’ve thought of something.”
“Have you?” Hetty said, delightedly clapping her hands. “How wonderful! We all—that is, Selby and Wystan Farr and I—have tried endlessly to find a way. What on earth have you thought of?”
The grey head leaned close to the curly auburn one, and a delightful hour passed in plotting stratagems. The plotting continued over a hastily-arranged luncheon of baked salmon, coddled eggs, country ham, cold roast beef, hot biscuits, stewed tomatoes, a ragout of veal, and a number of creams and jellies. By the time the two conspirators kissed each other goodbye, it was past two o’clock. Hetty saw Lady Hazel to the door, and, swinging her bonnet by the ribbons, she almost danced up the stairs to her sitting room where she spent the rest of the afternoon at her desk composing a number of carefully-worded notes. Meanwhile, Lady Hazel walked home with a decidedly youthful spring in her step, and a secret smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.
Lady Gwen Rowle had been persuaded by Sir George Pollard to join him and a couple of lively friends, Lady Flora and Sir Richard Warrenton, for a gay evening at the Covent Garden theater and a late supper afterwards at the Warrentons’ table. Gwen had at first refused the invitation, for Lady Flora seemed to her a silly woman who responded to every remark with a giggle, as if everyone’s purpose for speaking to her was to tease, and Sir Richard was a court-card who often rendered Gwen uncomfortable by staring at her decolletage through his quizzing-glass. However, Sir George was persistent, and Gwen had determined to keep herself busy, so she agreed at last. Now, sitting in a box at the theater at intermission time, she was glad she had come. The famous Mrs. Siddons was most affecting as Constance in King John , and Sir George had done everything to see to her comfort, even taking a seat between her and Lady Flora as if he understood that she did not enjoy having that lady giggling in her ear throughout the performance.
This intermission was the first moment he had permitted her to be alone, the Warrentons having gone off to visit with some acquaintance they had spied in another box, and Sir George to find her some refreshment. She leaned back in her seat and fanned herself contentedly. She let her eyes roam over the other boxes, and suddenly her fan ceased moving. Looking at her with his hint of a smile was Lord Jamison, comfortably ensconced in a box only two removed from her own. She stared at him coldly and turned away with a decided toss of her head. She hoped that the insolence of her gesture made it clear that she would not in any way acknowledge his presence.
To her chagrin, her pulse began to race in a most alarming way, and her cheeks became noticeably hot. She fanned herself rapidly and began to wish for Sir George’s return. She did not like to be observed by that man while sitting here alone. She felt awkward and self-conscious and found herself strongly tempted to glance in his direction to see if he was still watching her, but of course she could not permit herself to do such a thing. After an endless moment, the door of the box opened, and she turned gratefully to welcome Sir George. But it was Drew who stood smiling down at her.
“Good evening, Lady Rowle. Are you enjoying the play?” he asked comfortably, seating himself beside her without leave. She turned her head away from him in annoyance. “A number of people have seen us,” Drew continued smoothly.
Hazel smiled, but shook her head. “We mustn’t hope for too much,” she cautioned. “It will be enough to see Gwen overcome her bitterness and to restore Lord Jamison to the good graces of society.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Hetty said, sighing. “But I don’t see how we’re to bring even that to pass.”
“Well, you see, I’ve thought of something.”
“Have you?” Hetty said, delightedly clapping her hands. “How wonderful! We all—that is, Selby and Wystan Farr and I—have tried endlessly to find a way. What on earth have you thought of?”
The grey head leaned close to the curly auburn one, and a delightful hour passed in plotting stratagems. The plotting continued over a hastily-arranged luncheon of baked salmon, coddled eggs, country ham, cold roast beef, hot biscuits, stewed tomatoes, a ragout of veal, and a number of creams and jellies. By the time the two conspirators kissed each other goodbye, it was past two o’clock. Hetty saw Lady Hazel to the door, and, swinging her bonnet by the ribbons, she almost danced up the stairs to her sitting room where she spent the rest of the afternoon at her desk composing a number of carefully-worded notes. Meanwhile, Lady Hazel walked home with a decidedly youthful spring in her step, and a secret smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.
Lady Gwen Rowle had been persuaded by Sir George Pollard to join him and a couple of lively friends, Lady Flora and Sir Richard Warrenton, for a gay evening at the Covent Garden theater and a late supper afterwards at the Warrentons’ table. Gwen had at first refused the invitation, for Lady Flora seemed to her a silly woman who responded to every remark with a giggle, as if everyone’s purpose for speaking to her was to tease, and Sir Richard was a court-card who often rendered Gwen uncomfortable by staring at her decolletage through his quizzing-glass. However, Sir George was persistent, and Gwen had determined to keep herself busy, so she agreed at last. Now, sitting in a box at the theater at intermission time, she was glad she had come. The famous Mrs. Siddons was most affecting as Constance in King John , and Sir George had done everything to see to her comfort, even taking a seat between her and Lady Flora as if he understood that she did not enjoy having that lady giggling in her ear throughout the performance.
This intermission was the first moment he had permitted her to be alone, the Warrentons having gone off to visit with some acquaintance they had spied in another box, and Sir George to find her some refreshment. She leaned back in her seat and fanned herself contentedly. She let her eyes roam over the other boxes, and suddenly her fan ceased moving. Looking at her with his hint of a smile was Lord Jamison, comfortably ensconced in a box only two removed from her own. She stared at him coldly and turned away with a decided toss of her head. She hoped that the insolence of her gesture made it clear that she would not in any way acknowledge his presence.
To her chagrin, her pulse began to race in a most alarming way, and her cheeks became noticeably hot. She fanned herself rapidly and began to wish for Sir George’s return. She did not like to be observed by that man while sitting here alone. She felt awkward and self-conscious and found herself strongly tempted to glance in his direction to see if he was still watching her, but of course she could not permit herself to do such a thing. After an endless moment, the door of the box opened, and she turned gratefully to welcome Sir George. But it was Drew who stood smiling down at her.
“Good evening, Lady Rowle. Are you enjoying the play?” he asked comfortably, seating himself beside her without leave. She turned her head away from him in annoyance. “A number of people have seen us,” Drew continued smoothly.
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