you?”
“Of course she’s not a bluestocking!” cried the Viscount, bristling in defence of his bride. “The thing is she’s only just out of the schoolroom. She can’t help but have her head crammed with all that stuff!”
“Anyone can see she’s not a bluestocking,” said Mr Ringwood severely. “Besides, you oughtn’t to say things like that, Ferdy. Very bad ton !”
Mr Fakenham begged pardon in some confusion, and said that he was devilish glad. A fresh bogey at once raised its head, and he demanded, in accents of extreme foreboding, whether the evening’s entertainment was to consist of Shakespeare. Upon being reassured, he was able to relax again and to continue eating his dinner in tolerable composure.
The play to which the Viscount carried his guests was not of a nature to tax even the Honourable Ferdy’s understanding. It was a merry, and not always very polite, comedy which all three young gentlemen pronounced to be very tolerable, and which cast Hero into a trance of ecstasy which would not allow her to withdraw her rapt gaze from the stage for an instant. She did not quite comprehend some of the witticisms which appeared heartily to amuse her companions, and at one point she threw Mr Ringwood into acute discomfort by asking enlightenment of him. Fortunately, the Viscount overheard her, and rescued his friend from his dilemma by saying briefly that she wouldn’t understand even if she were told.
During the interval it was soon made evident that the Viscount’s box was attracting a good deal of attention from other parts of the house. His lordship, detecting various acquaintances amongst the audience, waved and bowed; and after a few minutes a knock fell on the door of the box and a fashionable-looking gentleman entered, glancing curiously at Hero from under rather drooping eyelids, and saying in a languid tone: “So you are come back again, my dear Sherry! And without a word! I begin to think I must have offended you.”
“Hallo, Monty!” responded Sherry, getting up from his chair. “What a fellow you are for funning! No offence at all! I’m devilish glad to see you here tonight—want to present you to my wife! Hero, this is Sir Montagu Revesby—particular friend of mine!”
Hero felt a little shy of this elegant stranger, who looked to be some years older than Sherry. The slightly supercilious air that hung about him, and the irony of his smile, made her uncomfortable, but she was naturally prepared to like any friend of Sherry’s, and she held out her hand at once.
Sir Montagu took it in his, but his brows had flown up in quick surprise, and he directed a half laughing, half startled glance at Sherry. “Is it so indeed!” he said. “You are quite sure it is not you who are funning, my dear boy?”
Sherry laughed. “No, no, we were married today! Ask Gil if we were not!”
“But this is most unexpected!” Sir Montagu said. “You must allow me to offer you my felicitations, Sherry.” His cold eyes ran over Hero; his smile broadened. “Ah—my deepest felicitations, Sherry! And so you were married today? Dear me, yes! How very interesting! But why did you not send me a card for the wedding?”
Mr Ringwood unexpectedly decided to bear his part in this interchange. He said rather shortly: “Private ceremony. St George’s Hanover Square. Lady Sheringham desired it so. Don’t care for a fuss.”
“In deep mourning,” corroborated Ferdy, feeling that a little embroidery was needed.
“No, not in mourning,” said Mr Ringwood, annoyed. “Wouldn’t be here if she was. Family reasons.”
“Nonsense!” said Sherry, rejecting this kindly intervention. “To tell you the truth, Monty, we made a runaway match of it.”
“Save trouble,” murmured Ferdy, faint but pursuing.
“I understand perfectly,” bowed Sir Montagu. “I must think myself fortunate to have been amongst the first to make Lady Sheringham’s acquaintance. For I do not think—?”
“No, she’s
“Of course she’s not a bluestocking!” cried the Viscount, bristling in defence of his bride. “The thing is she’s only just out of the schoolroom. She can’t help but have her head crammed with all that stuff!”
“Anyone can see she’s not a bluestocking,” said Mr Ringwood severely. “Besides, you oughtn’t to say things like that, Ferdy. Very bad ton !”
Mr Fakenham begged pardon in some confusion, and said that he was devilish glad. A fresh bogey at once raised its head, and he demanded, in accents of extreme foreboding, whether the evening’s entertainment was to consist of Shakespeare. Upon being reassured, he was able to relax again and to continue eating his dinner in tolerable composure.
The play to which the Viscount carried his guests was not of a nature to tax even the Honourable Ferdy’s understanding. It was a merry, and not always very polite, comedy which all three young gentlemen pronounced to be very tolerable, and which cast Hero into a trance of ecstasy which would not allow her to withdraw her rapt gaze from the stage for an instant. She did not quite comprehend some of the witticisms which appeared heartily to amuse her companions, and at one point she threw Mr Ringwood into acute discomfort by asking enlightenment of him. Fortunately, the Viscount overheard her, and rescued his friend from his dilemma by saying briefly that she wouldn’t understand even if she were told.
During the interval it was soon made evident that the Viscount’s box was attracting a good deal of attention from other parts of the house. His lordship, detecting various acquaintances amongst the audience, waved and bowed; and after a few minutes a knock fell on the door of the box and a fashionable-looking gentleman entered, glancing curiously at Hero from under rather drooping eyelids, and saying in a languid tone: “So you are come back again, my dear Sherry! And without a word! I begin to think I must have offended you.”
“Hallo, Monty!” responded Sherry, getting up from his chair. “What a fellow you are for funning! No offence at all! I’m devilish glad to see you here tonight—want to present you to my wife! Hero, this is Sir Montagu Revesby—particular friend of mine!”
Hero felt a little shy of this elegant stranger, who looked to be some years older than Sherry. The slightly supercilious air that hung about him, and the irony of his smile, made her uncomfortable, but she was naturally prepared to like any friend of Sherry’s, and she held out her hand at once.
Sir Montagu took it in his, but his brows had flown up in quick surprise, and he directed a half laughing, half startled glance at Sherry. “Is it so indeed!” he said. “You are quite sure it is not you who are funning, my dear boy?”
Sherry laughed. “No, no, we were married today! Ask Gil if we were not!”
“But this is most unexpected!” Sir Montagu said. “You must allow me to offer you my felicitations, Sherry.” His cold eyes ran over Hero; his smile broadened. “Ah—my deepest felicitations, Sherry! And so you were married today? Dear me, yes! How very interesting! But why did you not send me a card for the wedding?”
Mr Ringwood unexpectedly decided to bear his part in this interchange. He said rather shortly: “Private ceremony. St George’s Hanover Square. Lady Sheringham desired it so. Don’t care for a fuss.”
“In deep mourning,” corroborated Ferdy, feeling that a little embroidery was needed.
“No, not in mourning,” said Mr Ringwood, annoyed. “Wouldn’t be here if she was. Family reasons.”
“Nonsense!” said Sherry, rejecting this kindly intervention. “To tell you the truth, Monty, we made a runaway match of it.”
“Save trouble,” murmured Ferdy, faint but pursuing.
“I understand perfectly,” bowed Sir Montagu. “I must think myself fortunate to have been amongst the first to make Lady Sheringham’s acquaintance. For I do not think—?”
“No, she’s
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