Bertie Fairfax looked up at her with his frank eyes to see if she was quizzing him, then laughed musically.
"Perhaps he thought so and tumbled down on purpose. It doesn't much matter--I like walking, but not here; I like more room. My friend, Mr. Dodson, however, insisted upon this promenade. He is an observer of human nature--a cynic, I regret to say--and finds material for bitter and scornful reflection in the gay and thoughtless crowd. Are you going to Lady Darefield's ball to-night?"
"Yes," said Ethel. "I presume you, also, by your question, are going?"
"Yes," said Bertie Fairfax, "I am glad to say."
Five minutes before he had sworn to Mr. Leicester Dodson that he wouldn't go to my Lady Darefield's ball for five hundred pounds, and five hundreds pounds were of some consequence to Mr. Bertie Fairfax.
"It is very hot for balls, but one must do his duty. I hope I may be able to persuade you to give me a dance?"
"I don't know," said Ethel, with a smile.
At that moment her horse walked on a little. Mr. Fairfax moved farther up the rail, and then conversation, no more confidential than that we have already given, continued until Lord Fitz was heard to exclaim "Good-by," and then joined his sister.
Both the gentlemen on foot raised their hats, Bertie Fairfax with his cordial, pleasant smile, Leicester Dodson with his grave and also pleasant grace, and after a return of the salutations the four young people parted.
"Well," said Lord Fitz, from whose mind the recent meeting had expunged the unpleasant remembrances of his morning interview, "what do you think of them?"
"I don't know which was the handsomer," she said, thoughtfully.
"That's just like you women, Eth; you always think of the graces first."
"Well," said Ethel, "there was no time to know anything more about them. I think Mr. Fairfax is very pleasant--he has a nice voice and such frank eyes. There are some men with whom you feel friendly in the first ten minutes; he is one of them."
"You're right," said Lord Fitz. "Bertie's the jolliest and dearest old fellow going. Poor old Bert!"
"Because he is poor, deuced poor," said Lord Fitz, muttering under his breath, with a sigh, "Like some more of us."
"Well," said Lord Fitz, "he has to work for his living. He's a barrister or something of that sort. But he writes and draws things for books, you know. I don't quite understand. He can sing like a nightingale and tell a story better than any man I know."