'Where there's much love there's little ceremony, didn't you say just now?' observed innocent Picotee.

'And where there's little love, no ceremony at all. These manners of his are dreadful, and I believe he will never improve.'

'It makes you care not a bit about him, does it not, Berta?' said Picotee hopefully.

'I don't answer for that,' said Ethelberta. 'I feel, as many others do, that a want of ceremony which is produced by abstraction of mind is no defect in a poet or musician, fatal as it may be to an ordinary man.'

'Mighty me! You soon forgive him.'

'Picotee, don't you be so quick to speak. Before I have finished, how do you know what I am going to say? I'll never tell you anything again, if you take me up so. Of course I am going to punish him at once, and make him remember that I am a lady, even if I do like him a little.'

'How do you mean to punish him?' said Picotee, with interest.

'By writing and telling him that on no account is he to come.'

'But there is not time for a letter--'

'That doesn't matter. It will show him that I did not mean him to come.'

At hearing the very merciful nature of the punishment, Picotee sighed without replying; and Ethelberta despatched her note. The hour of appointment drew near, and Ethelberta showed symptoms of unrest. Six o'clock struck and pa.s.sed. She walked here and there for nothing, and it was plain that a dread was filling her: her letter might accidentally have had, in addition to the moral effect which she had intended, the practical effect which she did not intend, by arriving before, instead of after, his purposed visit to her, thereby stopping him in spite of all her care.

'How long are letters going to Bloomsbury?' she said suddenly.

'Two hours, Joey tells me,' replied Picotee, who had already inquired on her own private account.

'There!' exclaimed Ethelberta petulantly. 'How I dislike a man to misrepresent things! He said there was not time for a reply!'

'Perhaps he didn't know,' said Picotee, in angel tones; 'and so it happens all right, and he has got it, and he will not come after all.'

They waited and waited, but Christopher did not appear that night; the true case being that his declaration about insufficient time for a reply was merely an ingenious suggestion to her not to be so cruel as to forbid him. He was far from suspecting when the letter of denial did reach him--about an hour before the time of appointment--that it was sent by a refinement of art, of which the real intention was futility, and that but for his own misstatement it would have been carefully delayed.

The next day another letter came from the musician, decidedly short and to the point. The irate lover stated that he would not be made a fool of any longer: under any circ.u.mstances he meant to come that self-same afternoon, and should decidedly expect her to see him.

'I will not see him!' said Ethelberta. 'Why did he not call last night?'

'Because you told him not to,' said Picotee.

'Good gracious, as if a woman's words are to be translated as literally as Homer! Surely he is aware that more often than not "No" is said to a man's importunities because it is traditionally the correct modest reply, and for nothing else in the world. If all men took words as superficially as he does, we should die of decorum in shoals.'

'Ah, Berta! how could you write a letter that you did not mean should be obeyed?'

'I did in a measure mean it, although I could have shown Christian forgiveness if it had not been. Never mind; I will not see him. I'll plague my heart for the credit of my s.e.x.'

To ensure the fulfilment of this resolve, Ethelberta determined to give way to a headache that she was beginning to be aware of, go to her room, disorganize her dress, and ruin her hair by lying down; so putting it out of her power to descend and meet Christopher on any momentary impulse.

Picotee sat in the room with her, reading, or pretending to read, and Ethelberta pretended to sleep. Christopher's knock came up the stairs, and with it the end of the farce.

'I'll tell you what,' said Ethelberta in the prompt and broadly-awake tone of one who had been concentrated on the expectation of that sound for a length of time, 'it was a mistake in me to do this! Joey will be sure to make a muddle of it.'

Joey was heard coming up the stairs. Picotee opened the door, and said, with an anxiety transcending Ethelberta's, 'Well?'

'O, will you tell Mrs. Petherwin that Mr. Julian says he'll wait.'

'You were not to ask him to wait,' said Ethelberta, within.

'I know that,' said Joey, 'and I didn't. He's doing that out of his own head.'

'Then let Mr. Julian wait, by all means,' said Ethelberta. 'Allow him to wait if he likes, but tell him it is uncertain if I shall be able to come down.'

Joey then retired, and the two sisters remained in silence.

'I wonder if he's gone,' Ethelberta said, at the end of a long time.

'I thought you were asleep,' said Picotee. 'Shall we ask Joey? I have not heard the door close.'

Joey was summoned, and after a leisurely ascent, interspersed by various gymnastic performances over the handrail here and there, appeared again.

'He's there jest the same: he don't seem to be in no hurry at all,' said Joey.

'What is he doing?' inquired Picotee solicitously.

'O, only looking at his watch sometimes, and humming tunes, and playing rat-a-tat-tat upon the table. He says he don't mind waiting a bit.'

'You must have made a mistake in the message,' said Ethelberta, within.

'Well, no. I am correct as a jineral thing. I jest said perhaps you would be engaged all the evening, and perhaps you wouldn't.'

When Joey had again retired, and they had waited another ten minutes, Ethelberta said, 'Picotee, do you go down and speak a few words to him. I am determined he shall not see me. You know him a little; you remember when he came to the Lodge?'

'What must I say to him?'

Ethelberta paused before replying. 'Try to find out if--if he is much grieved at not seeing me, and say--give him to understand that I will forgive him, Picotee.'

'Very well.'

'And Picotee--'

'Yes.'

'If he says he must see me--I think I will get up. But only if he says must: you remember that.'

Picotee departed on her errand. She paused on the staircase trembling, and thinking between the thrills how very far would have been the conduct of her poor slighted self from proud recalcitration had Mr. Julian's gentle request been addressed to her instead of to Ethelberta; and she went some way in the painful discovery of how much more tantalizing it was to watch an envied situation that was held by another than to be out of sight of it altogether. Here was Christopher waiting to bestow love, and Ethelberta not going down to receive it: a commodity unequalled in value by any other in the whole wide world was being wantonly wasted within that very house. If she could only have stood to-night as the beloved Ethelberta, and not as the despised Picotee, how different would be this going down! Thus she went along, red and pale moving in her cheeks as in the Northern Lights at their strongest time.

Meanwhile Christopher had sat waiting minute by minute till the evening shades grew browner, and the fire sank low. Joey, finding himself not particularly wanted upon the premises after the second inquiry, had slipped out to witness a n.i.g.g.e.r performance round the corner, and Julian began to think himself forgotten by all the household. The perception gradually cooled his emotions and enabled him to hold his hat quite steadily.

When Picotee gently thrust open the door she was surprised to find the room in darkness, the fire gone completely out, and the form of Christopher only visible by a faint patch of light, which, coming from a lamp on the opposite side of the way and falling upon the mirror, was thrown as a pale nebulosity upon his shoulder. Picotee was too flurried at sight of the familiar outline to know what to do, and, instead of going or calling for a light, she mechanically advanced into the room.

Christopher did not turn or move in any way, and then she perceived that he had begun to doze in his chair.