Mrs Ruishton laid down the coffee pot. “Of course I do, my love. She is forever playing with the traders’ children. I dare swear it is Mr Burrow’s and Mr Stapley’s boys, and the children from the Friends Brewhouse.”
She sighed. Situated as their house was, just off the main London Road about halfway up the town, away from its main hub by the chalybeate spring, it was inevitable that her son should make friends of this somewhat undesirable sort.
“I do not altogether care that Felix should enjoy such company, though I dare say no real harm will come of it.”
“Never mind that,” said her husband. “The boy must play with someone, after all. But only think, Unice,” he added on a gleefulnote, “Hawk must needs set his sights on the one woman who will prove impervious.”
“What do you mean, impervious?” demanded Denzell, starting out of an agreeable reverie where he fitted the name to the vision of that enchanting face.
“It is quite immaterial,” cut in Unice before her spouse could respond. “Osmond, you are not to let him trouble the poor girl. You must forbid him to do so.”
“Forbid Hawk? Are you out of your senses, Unice? You don’t suppose I have any influence over the fellow, do you?”
“None whatsoever,” Denzell averred, and turned, his fork poised in the air, to address Mrs Ruishton. “But why do you speak of her as a poor girl?”
“In any event,” went on Osmond, without giving his wife an opportunity to answer, “I’m dashed if I take responsibility for Hawk’s actions. Bad enough having the fellow battening on us, never mind holding him when he’s got the bit between his teeth like this.”
“You would invite me,” Denzell pointed out, digging into a thick portion of ham. “On your own head be it. But do be quiet, dear boy. I am trying to have an intelligent conversation with your wife.”
“Trying to turn her up sweet is what you mean.”
“Unice, I know you care for this fellow, God knows why, but do, for pity’s sake, ignore him and attend to me. Who — is — she? Is she married? Why ‘poor’?”
“Why ask?” countered Osmond irrepressibly. “You’ll catch cold at it, if you choose to try your tricks on that one, I can tell you now.”
“It is only jealousy that makes you say so. How you ever succeeded in attaching this charmer has always been beyond me.”
Osmond took this in good part. He was not as well endowed by nature as Denzell, who had a little the advantage in both height and looks, but good features and an amused eye rendered him not unattractive, despite the girlish brown mop of shorn hair that his friends were inclined to deprecate. What he lacked, which Denzell had in abundance, was that elusive quality, charm.
It was not the smoky glow of Denzell’s blue eyes, nor yet the shapely lips ever hovering on the beginnings of a smile. It had nothing to do with the manner of his dress, modish but inconspicuous, nor with his obstinate adherence to the custom of tying his own long hair loosely in a ribbon at the back, a fashion going as rapidly out of style as was the natural female waistline, which had recently risen to sit just below the bosom.
Not one of Denzell’s numerous female admirers could have said just what it was that caused the heart to race faster in her breast, or her knees to weaken whenever he chanced to smile at her in a particular way. But every one of them would have agreed that, whatever it might be, it was irresistible. That he was also an accomplished flirt apparently only added — in the sapient opinion of his observant friend — to his attractions.
“Tell me, Unice,” he was continuing, turning to his hostess again, “were you inebriated when this fellow offered for you?”
A crack of laughter from Osmond acknowledged a hit. But although Unice smiled, she dealt her visitor a smart slap on the arm. “For shame, Denzell. You know perfectly well that it was love at first sight with us both.”
“Exactly. And now that I, in my turn, have fallen victim to the tender passion —”
“Ha!”
“— it would be cruel in you,” continued Denzell, ignoring his host, “to withhold any little item concerning the lady who has dashed the heart from my chest in an instant. Tell me all!”
“But, indeed, Denzell, I believe Osmond is in the right of it on this occasion.”
“What do you mean, on this occasion? I’m always in the right of it.”
“Do be quiet for a moment, dearest.”
“Yes, for pity’s sake, ‘dearest’, hold your tongue!”
Osmond rolled some crumbled bread and flicked it at his friend. Denzell, naturally enough, returned the compliment, and battle was fairly joined until both combatants were called to order by the lady of the house. “I declare, you are worse than Felix and Miles, the pair of you,” she complained.
“Well, Hawk shouldn’t be so dashed insulting,” said her husband impenitently.
“I like that. You began it.”
“Enough, both of you!”
