Mr. Hamleigh had his own way, and carried off Christabel and Miss Bridgeman to the White Horse Cellar, with the faithful Major in attendance.
"You will bring Belle home in time to dress for Lady Bulteel's dinner," said Mrs. Tregonell, impressively, as they were departing. "Mind, Major, I hold you responsible for her return. You are the only sober person in the party. I believe Jessie Bridgeman is as wild as a hawk, when she gets out of my sight."
Jessie's shrewd grey eyes twinkled at the reproof.
"I am not very sorry to get away from Bolton Row, and the fine ladies who come to see you--and who always look at me as much as to say, 'Who is she?--what is she?--how did she come here?'--and who are obviously surprised if I say anything intelligent--first, at my audacity in speaking before company, and next that such a thing as I should have any brains."
"Nonsense, Jessie, how thin-skinned you are; everybody praises you," said Mrs. Tregonell, while they all waited on the threshold for Christabel to fasten her eight-button gloves--a delicate operation, in which she was assisted by Mr. Hamleigh.
"How clever you are at buttoning gloves," exclaimed Christabel; "one would think you had served an apprenticeship."
"That's not the first pair he has buttoned, I'll wager," cried the Major, in his loud, hearty voice; and then, seeing Angus redden ever so slightly, and remembering certain rumours which he had heard at his club, the kindly bachelor regretted his speech.
Happily, Christabel was engaged at this moment in kissing her aunt, and did not observe Mr. Hamleigh's heightened colour. Ten minutes later they were all seated outside the coach, bowling down Piccadilly Hill on their way westward.
"In the good old days this is how you would have started for Cornwall," said Angus.
"So do I, if your aunt would let us be married at that dear little church in the glen. Christabel, when I die, if you have the ordering of my funeral, be sure that I am buried in Minster Churchyard."
"Angus, don't," murmured Christabel, piteously.
"Dearest, 'we must all die--'tis an inevitable chance--the first Statute in Magna Charta--it is an everlasting Act of Parliament'--that's what he says of death, dear, who jested at all things, and laid his cap and bells down one day in a lodging in Bond Street--the end of which we passed just now--sad and lonely, and perhaps longing for the kindred whom he had forsaken."