glancing at him with a mocking smile, "Lady Chetwoode quite forgot to deliver that small lecture. You, Sir Guy, as my guardian, should have reminded her."

CHAPTER XIII.

"Sweets to the sweet."--_Hamlet._

"I am going to London in the morning. Can I do anything for anybody?"

asks Sir Guy, at exactly twenty minutes past ten on Wednesday night.

"Madre, what of you?"

"Nothing, dear, thank you," says the Madre, lazily enough, her eyes comfortably closed. "But to-morrow, my dear boy! why to-morrow? You know we expect Archibald."

"I shall be home long before he arrives, if I don't meet him and bring him with me."

"Some people make a point of being from home when their guests are expected," says Miss Lilian, pointedly, raising demure eyes to his.

"Some other people make a point of being ungenerous," retorts he.

"Florence, can I bring you anything?"

"I want some wools matched: I cannot finish the parrot's tail in my crewel-work until I get them, and you will be some hours earlier than the post."

"What! you expect me to enter a fancy shop--is that what you call it?--and sort wools, while the young woman behind the counter makes love to me? I should die of shame."

"Nonsense! you need only hand in the envelope I will prepare for you, and wait until you receive an answer to it."

"Very good. I dare say I shall survive so much. And you, my ward? How can I serve you?"

"In a thousand ways, but modesty forbids my mentioning them. _Au reste_, I want bonbons, a new book or two, and--the portrait of the handsomest young man in London."

"I thoroughly understand, and am immensely flattered. I shall have myself taken the moment I get there. Would you prefer me sitting or standing, with my hat on or off? A small size or a cabinet?"

Miss Chesney makes a little grimace eminently becoming, but disdains direct reply. "I said a _young_ man," she remarks, severely.

"I heard you. Am not I in the flower of my youth and beauty?"

"Lilian evidently does not think so," says Florence, with a would-be air of intense surprise.

"Why should I, when it suits me to think differently?" returns Lilian, calmly. Florence rather amuses her than otherwise. "Sir Guy and I are quite good friends at present. He has been civil to me for two whole days together, and has not once told me I have a horrid temper, or held me up to scorn in any way. Such conduct deserves reward. Therefore I liken him to an elderly gentleman, because I adore old men. You see, Guardy?" with an indescribably fascinating air, that has a suspicion of sauciness only calculated to heighten its charm.

"I should think he is old in reality to you," says Florence: "you are such a child."

"I am," says Lilian, agreeably, though secretly annoyed at the other's slighting tone. "I like it. There is nothing so good as youth. I should like to be eighteen always. But for my babyish ways and utter hopelessness, I feel positive Sir Guy would have beaten me long ago. But who could chastise an infant?"

"In long robes," puts in Cyril, who is deep in the intricacies of chess with Mr. Musgrave.

"Besides, I am 'Esther Summerson,' and he is 'Mr. Jarndyce,' and Esther's 'Guardy' very rightly was in perfect subjection to his ward."

"Esther's guardian, if I remember correctly, fell in love with her; and she let him see"--dreamily but spitefully--"that she preferred another."

"Ah, Sir Guy, think of that. See what lies before you," says Lilian, coloring warmly, but braving it out to the end.

"I am sure you are going to ask me what I should like, Guy," breaks in Cyril, languidly, who is not so engrossed by his game but that he can heed Lilian's embarra.s.sment. "Those cigars of yours are excellent. I shall feel obliged by your bringing me (as a free gift, mind) half a dozen boxes. If you do, it will be a saving, as for the future I shall leave yours in peace."

"Thank you: I shall make a note of it," says Guy, laughing.

"Do you go early, Sir Guy?" asks Lilian, presently. She is leaning back in a huge lounging-chair of blue satin that almost conceals from view her tiny figure. In her hands is an ebony fan, and as she asks the question she closes and uncloses it indolently.

"Very early. I must start at seven to catch the train, if I wish to get my business done and be back by five."

"What an unearthly hour for a poor old gentleman like you to rise! You won't recover it in a hurry. You will breakfast before you go?"

"Yes."

"What a lunch you will eat when you get to town! But don't overdo it, Guardy. You will be starving, no doubt; but remember the horrors of gout. And who will give you your breakfast at seven?"

She raises her large soft eyes to his and, unfurling her fan, lays it thoughtfully against her pretty lips. Sir Guy is about to make an eager reply, when Miss Beauchamp interposes.

"I always give Guy his breakfast when he goes to London," she says, calmly yet hastily.

"Check!" says Cyril, at this instant, with his eyes on the board. "My dear Musgrave, what a false move!--a fatal delay. Don't you know bold play generally wins?"

"Sometimes it loses," retorts Taffy, innocently; which reply, to his surprise, appears to cause Mr. Chetwoode infinite amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Whenever you do go," says Lilian to Sir Guy, "don't forget my sweetmeats: I shall be dreaming of them until I see you again. Have you a pocket-book? Yes. Well, put down in it what I most particularly love.

I like chocolate creams and burnt almonds better than anything in the world."

Cyril, with dreamy sentiment, "How I wish I was a burnt almond!"

Miss Chesney, viciously, "If you were, what a bite I would give you!"

Taffy, to Sir Guy, "Lilian's tastes and mine are one. If you are really going to bring lollypops, please make the supply large. When I think of burnt almonds I feel no end hungry."

Lilian, vigorously, "You shan't have any of mine, Taffy. Don't imagine it! Yesterday you ate every one Cyril brought me from Fenston. I crossed the room for one instant, and when I came back the box was literally cleared. Wasn't it a shame? I shan't go into partnership with you over Sir Guy's confections."

Taffy, _sotto voce_, "Greedy little thing!" Then suddenly addressing Sir Guy, "I think I saw your old colonel--Trant--about the neighborhood to-day."

Cyril draws himself up with a start and looks hard at the lad, who is utterly unconscious of the private bombsh.e.l.l he has discharged.

"Trant!" says Guy, surprised; "impossible. Unless, indeed," with a light laugh, "he came to look after his _protegee_, the widow."

"Mrs. Arlington? I saw her yesterday," says Taffy, with animation. "She was in her garden, and she is lovely. I never saw anything so perfect as her smile."

"I hope you are not _epris_ with her. We warn everybody against our tenant," Guy says, smiling, though there is evident meaning in his tone.

"We took her to oblige Trant,--who begged we would not be inquisitive about her; and literally we are in ignorance of who she is, or where she came from. Widows, like cousins, are dangerous," with a slight glance at his brother, who is leaning back in his chair, a knight between his fingers, taking an exhaustive though nonchalant survey of the painted ceiling, where all the little loves and graces are playing at a very p.r.o.nounced game of hide-and-seek among the roses.

"I hope," says Florence, slowly, looking up from the _rara avis_ whose tail she is elaborately embroidering,--the original of which was never yet (most a.s.suredly) seen by land or sea,--"I hope Colonel Trant, in this instance, has not played you false. I cannot say I admire Mrs.