Toney knew at once this was her man, and she seized the porter.
"Mr. Smith, will you please get a fly and put that gentleman and all the luggage in it. I'm driving the other gentleman in the dog-cart."
The porter touched his hat with a grin, he was not accustomed to being called Mr. Smith, nor to hear a man-servant called a gentleman.
"How do you do? I know you are Mr. Frank Weston, because--there's no one else, is there--I've come to drive you home. I'm Toney Whitburn, so now we're introduced. Lady Dove's giving the party, but I take all the trouble. There's a fly for your man, and if you want the violin with you I'll put it behind us."
Frank Weston had been much dissatisfied with himself for accepting the munificent private offer for playing in a private house. The money had tempted him, as he had lately heard of a broken-down violinist who had nothing but the workhouse before him, and he had infinite pity for failure and poverty. For himself--now his parents were well provided for--he cared nothing at all. The one romance of his life had failed. He had loved once and once only. Jeanie Hamilton had touched his heart with her beauty and her talent, and strange to say her pride, but when her mother had told him her daughter refused his love, and had intimated that their social positions were too far removed, the genius had lifted his head more proudly than any aristocrat.
"I offered her my heart and my music," he had said, "they are worth more than anything she may possess."
"Yes, yes--you--and your genius but--your people are not our people," Mrs. Hamilton had murmured with the softness of a purring pussy.
Frank Weston's face had turned paler if possible than usual, and he walked away without answering. The iron had entered into his soul. But in spite of this he still loved his first love, though her name had never again passed his lips, and he hated other women because of her. No other should spurn him, and though many had wished to marry him, he had never asked any. His music was the gainer, for after that people said Frank Weston was inspired in his pathetic movements, and now Toney was going to play with fire.
Frank Weston's face was one not to be easily forgotten. His features seemed to be cut in alabaster, his hair reached his coat collar in soft curling fashion, but there was no affectation about him. He was far too true a genius to descend to small advertisements. Music was his only interest in life, but even a dreamy genius stood no chance with Toney. She piloted him out of the station and both stood by the side of the dog-cart. Frank Weston looked round hopelessly. He could not drive, and looking down at the slight girlish figure he doubted if she could, when he saw Jim holding the thorough-bred. Toney answered his look.