The Twelfth Hour Part 6

"I haven't got a stony heart Or whatever it is, it belongs to you: I vow myself thy slave, And always I shall e'er be true!"

There was an embarra.s.sed pause.

"Well, I really think that last line is rather pretty," said Aunt William, who had regained her self-control. "But do you think it is quite--"

"Is it all right to send to Her?" he said. "That's the point!"

"Well, I can hardly say. Would your father----"

"I say! You're not going to tell the Governor?"

"No, never, Savile dear. It shall be our secret," said Aunt William, rea.s.suringly.

"Of course, I know this sort of thing is great rot," he said apologetically, "but women like it."

"Oh, do they really?" said Aunt William. "Well! what I always say is, if you're born with a gift, you should cultivate it!"

Savile (thinking this encouragement rather meagre) replaced the poem and said: "I shall have to be going now, Aunt William. Got an appointment."

"With whom, my dear?"

"Yes," said Savile dryly. He did not approve of this direct method of ascertaining what one wants to know. He would confide, but never answered questions. She accepted the hint, but would not acknowledge it.

"Ah, I see!" she said knowingly (wishing she did). "Well, if you must go, you must!"

"Yes, Aunt William."

"But before you go, about that party ... I'm coming, of course. In fact, I'm having my peach brocade done up. Tell dear Sylvia that if there's anything I can do--I mean in the way of helping her with regard to the supper----"

"We've telephoned to Benoist's. It's all fixed up. Thanks very much."

"Oh! But still I think I'll send my recipe for salmon mayonnaise. Don't you think I might?"

"It can't do any harm, when you come to think of it," he answered, getting up.

Before he left, Aunt William pressed a sovereign into his hand guiltily, as if it were conscience money. He, on his side, took it as though it were a doctor's fee, and both ignored the transaction.

"Tell your father I'm sure I shall enjoy his entertainment, though why on _earth_ he still lives in Onslow Square, when he ought to be in London, I can't and never shall, understand. However, I believe there's quite a sort of society in Kensington, and no doubt _some_ of the right people will be there. Are any of the Primrose League coming, do you know, Savile?"

"Sure to be. There's Jasmyn Vere for one."

"Oh, Lord Dorking's son. He's a Knight Harbinger."

"Is he, though? He looks like a night porter," said Savile. "Good-bye."

He then turned back to murmur. "I say, Aunt William. Thanks most awfully." She went back smiling.

A few minutes later Savile was looking over the railings into Berkeley Square.

In a kind of summer-house among the trees sat a little girl of fourteen dressed in grey. She wore a large straw hat on her head and a blue bow in her hair, and had evidently provided herself with materials of amus.e.m.e.nt for the afternoon, for she had a "picture-postcard alb.u.m" by her side, and seemed absorbed in a thick volume of history.

Dolly Clive resembled in expression and the shape of her face one of Sir Joshua's angel's heads (if one could imagine them brunettes). She had large brown eyes and a long black plait, and was a graceful example of what was formerly called "the awkward age." It needed no connoisseur to see that she was going to be a very pretty woman. When she saw Savile, she rushed to the gate and let him in with a key.

"Hallo, Dolly!"

"I say, Savile, wasn't King Charles the Second an angel? I've just been reading all about him, and you can't think what fun they used to have!"

He seemed surprised at this greeting, walked slowly with her to the arbour, and said rather suspiciously----

"Who had fun?"

"Why Lady Castlemaine, and Nell Gwynne, and the d.u.c.h.ess of Portsmouth,--and all those people. It says so here, if you don't believe it! I wish I'd lived at that time."

"I don't. There's fun now, too."

"Ah, but you don't know anything about it, Savile. I bet you anything you like you can't tell me those clever lines about the poor darling King's death!"

"Of course I can. Everybody knows them." Savile made an effort and then said, "You mean Fain would I climb but that ..."

"Oh no, no, no! Oh, good gracious, no! One more try, now."

"Had I but served my G.o.d as faithfully as I have served my king ..."

"Wrong again. That's Sir Philip Sidney," she said, shutting up the book with a bang. "It's

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King Whose word no man relies on ..."

"I say, old girl, I didn't come here to talk history, if you don't mind."

"Well, what do you want to talk about? Shall I show you my new one of Zena Dare?" said Dolly, opening the postcard alb.u.m.

"Certainly not. I can't worry about Zena Dare. No, I've got something to tell you--something rather serious. Zena Dare, indeed! What next?"

"Oh dear, are you in a bad temper?"

"How like a woman! No, I'm _not_ in a bad temper. Talking sense doesn't show that one's in a bad temper. But it's a beastly thing to have to do."

Dorothy sat on both the books, came nearer to Savile, and looked rather pale, tactfully waiting, in silence.

Then suddenly he said in a different tone, quite cheerily----

"That's rather jolly, the way that blue bow is stuck in your hair, Dolly."

"I thought you wanted to talk sense, Savile. What is it? Have you found out--anything?"

"What do you mean? Yes, I've jolly well found out that I can't be engaged to you any more. I've no right to be."

She did not seem overwhelmed by the news.