“Carrie, dear,” she said, “you are the only one who has any influence over that irrepressible man. Do gag him for a few minutes;” and passed over a plate of gaufrettes, which Carrie brought to me.
I held the plate to Mrs. Loring Chatterton, who, a reminiscence of fun still in her eyes, accepted the peace-offering with a warning shake of her head.
“Mr. Butterfield,” she said, “you never were anything but mischievous, and it’s my opinion you never will be. Oh, I wish I could get you off my hands. There are plenty of nice girls. Look at Millie there,” she whispered.
“Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “once upon a time there was a fox, who was caught in a trap, and had his tail cut off. After that----”
“Ah well, I suppose you know your own mind. But, Mr. Butterfield”--she leaned over, and spoke quite low--“I believe you make out your young days--and Loring’s--to have been much worse than they were. Do you not, now?”
Mrs. Loring had a little beauty-spot on her conscience which she thought was a stain.
Carrie and I were placidly surveying, from either end of my little dining-table, the creditable wreck we had made of a rather neat little dinner. Carrie never disdains this hour of the animal, at whatever table fortune shall place her; and when she does me the honour to dine with me, she generally pays me the compliment of evident enjoyment. It is a feature I admire in her.
I was making leisurely coffee arrangements with my latest bachelor acquisition, a pretty little silver and spirit affair, that did not necessitate rising from a comfortable seat; while my sister purred in soft content. I moved the shaded lamp aside to see her better--Carrie is a very presentable young woman; I thought her arms decidedly pretty.
“I think, Rol,” she said, as I looked carefully to the coffee, “I think--we will not grace the theatre this evening. It’s such a wet night, and I’m so comfy here.”
I could hear the rain without getting up. It was a wet night; and she did look comfy.
“Very well, my dear sister,” I replied. “As you please. It will save me a sovereign, unless you succeed in coaxing it out of me during the evening, which I have no doubt is your real motive.”
“Not enough, eh? Haven’t got it, my dear--this is good coffee, Caroline,--I’m really as poor as Hooley. There, that’s right. _Kümmel avec, n’est ce pas_, my dear?”