He entered upon a scene of contented domesticity in the Ruishtons’ cosy breakfast parlour, a neat apartment with faded yellow paper to the walls and spreading warmth from glowing embers in the grate of a simple marble-framed fireplace.
“Who,” he demanded without preamble as his hosts looked up to welcome him, “is the fairy princess even now blessing your back garden with her entrancing presence? And does she already have a prince on her leading string? If not, be warned that I intend to apply at once for the position.”
Osmond Ruishton, as casually clad as his guest but affecting stronger hues of plum and a salmon waistcoat, was seated to the window-side of the round mahogany table fashioned in the Hepplewhite style. He lowered theGazetteupon which, as befitted a family man at breakfast, his attention had been engaged, and gazed at his friend over the top of it.
“What the devil are you talking of, Hawk?”
“The girl, dear boy, the girl. And don’t pretend you don’t know her, because Felix and Miles have just been clasped to her bosom.”
Looking at his wife, Osmond shook his head. “Crazy. Stark staring crazy!”
Unice Ruishton, in a plain round gown of cambric, long-sleeved and made high to the throat, had been engaged in plying her spouse with ham and eggs from a central dish, and keeping his coffee cup filled from the steaming pot by her elbow from which emanated a tempting aroma, but she paused in this work, a frown creasing her brow.
“What in the world is the matter with you, Denzell?”
“Unice,” he responded in the tone of one afflicted by anxiety, as he dragged a chair out and took his seat between them both, “have pity on me. My head is reeling, my heart is bursting and I must know her name or I shall go mad!”
“Go mad?” interpolated Osmond. “You are mad!”
“Whose name?” asked Unice, bewildered, her pansy eyes blinking at him out of a pleasant countenance surrounded by dusky locks worn fashionably long just now under a lacy wisp of a cap. “Who is it you mean?”
“The ravishing female who has been building a snowman with a gang of urchins outside my window.”
The puzzlement vanished from Unice’s face. “Oh, I see.”
It was no mean part of Unice’s attraction that she was apt to treat all her husband’s bachelor friends as if they were anextension of her responsibilities to Osmond, and in need of such female care and guidance as she might be able to offer — a trait that rather amused the light-hearted Mr Ruishton than afforded him grounds for jealousy. Their mutual devotion was, besides, plain for all to see, particularly at a time when Unice’s natural plumpness was exaggerated in the course of her third pregnancy — to which the coming fashion of high waists was admirably suited.
She gave Denzell her full attention. “What does she look like?”
“Look like?” echoed Denzell. “Deuce take it, Unice, there cannot betwosuch beauties in this town! Who is she?”
“Oh, Lord,” uttered Osmond in disgust, at last grasping the purport of his friend’s conversation. “Don’t tell me you’re at it again.” He threw down theGazetteand addressed his wife. “He hasn’t been here five minutes and already he’s setting up a flirt.”
“Flirt? Nothing of the sort,” objected Denzell. “I’m going to whisk her off to Gretna Green.”
“Ha! I wish I may see it,” snorted his friend.
Denzell grinned. He was aware that it could come as no surprise to his closest intimate since the days of their early youth that he should be eulogising over some woman. But that would not prevent Osmond from indulging in a good deal of carping and criticism, a form of good-natured banter that was customary between them.
“I thought you told me you were finished with women,” Osmond accused.
“Finished? No, by George!” Osmond cast up his eyes, and Denzell grinned again, amending, “Well, only temporarily.”
“Extremely temporarily.”
“But this is no ordinary woman, dear boy. This is a clap of thunder.” Denzell turned back to his hostess, and noted that she was pursing dubious lips. “Aha! So you do know her. What is it,Unice?” he asked in a coaxing tone. “Is she married, or do you fear my honourable intentions?”
“Yourwhatintentions?”
“Osmond,” interrupted Unice, casting a glance at her husband that seemed to Denzell somewhat flurried, “I fancy he is thinking of Verena.”
Denzell lost interest for the moment in the possible significance of her manner. “Verena,” he murmured reverently. “Verena, Verena, Verena.” He sighed deeply. “My God, I’m in love!”
“Oh, Lord, here we go,” groaned Osmond. He watched his guest lift the cover off the silver dish and serve himself with a generous helping of ham and eggs, and observed, “No loss of appetite accompanies this sudden flush of ardour, I see.”
Denzell twinkled, taking up his knife and fork as Unice bustled to supply him with bread and butter, and to fill his cup from the steaming coffee pot. “I shall force it down, dear boy, for the sake of politeness, you know.”
A rude noise was Osmond’s only answer. Then a thought struck him and he brightened, his gaze seeking out his wife again. “Verena? Lord, Unice, you don’t mean the Chaceley chit?”
