Kate Coventry | Page 5

glad of it--which is very good of me, seeing
that I don't know Mr. Lovell." "Don't know Frank Lovell!" exclaimed
John. "The greatest friend I have in the world." (Men's friends always
are the greatest in the world.) "I'll introduce him to you; there he is--no
he isn't. I saw him a moment ago." And forthwith John launched into a
long biography of his friend Frank Lovell--how that gentleman was the
nicest fellow and the finest rider and the best shot in the universe; how
he knew more about racing than any man of his age, and had been in
more difficulties, and got out of them better, and robbed the public
generally with a more plausible air; how he sang a capital song, and
was the pleasantest company, and had more brains than the world gave
him credit for (as indeed might easily be the case); how he was very
good-looking, and very agreeable, and met with great success
(whatever that means) in society; how Lady Scapegrace was avowedly
in love with him; and he had thrown over pretty Miss Pinnifer because
he wouldn't leave the army, and six months afterwards was obliged to
sell his commission, when Outsider won the "Two Thousand;" together
with various other details, which lasted till it was time to have luncheon,
and go back to Windsor to catch the four o'clock train. Though
evidently such a hero of John's, I confess I didn't like what I heard of
Frank Lovell at all.
CHAPTER II.
We've got such a sweet little house in Lowndes Street--to my mind the
very best situation in London. When I say we, of course I mean Aunt
Deborah and myself. We live together, as I hope we always shall do, as
Aunt Deborah says, till "one of us is married." And notwithstanding the
difference of our ages we get on as comfortably as any two forlorn
maidens can. Though a perfect fairy palace within, our stronghold is
guarded by no giant, griffin, dragon, or dwarf; nothing more frightful
than a policeman, whose measured tread may be heard at the midnight
hour pacing up and down beneath our windows. "It's a great comfort,"
says Aunt Deborah, "to know that assistance is close at hand. I am a
lone woman, Kate, and I confess to feeling nervous when I lie awake."
I quite agree with my aunt, though I'm not nervous, but I must say I like
the idea of being watched over during the hours of sleep; and there is

something romantic in hearing the regular tramp of the sentinel whilst
one is curled up snug in bed. I don't much think it always is the
policeman--at least I know that one night when I got up to peep if it
was a constable, he was wrapped in a very loose cloak, such as is by no
means the uniform of the force, and was besides, unquestionably,
smoking a cigar, which I am given to understand is not permitted by the
regulations when on duty. I watched the glowing light for at least ten
minutes, and when I went to bed again, I could not get to sleep for
wondering who the amateur policeman could be.
But the house is a perfect jewel of its kind. Such a pretty dining-room,
such a lovely drawing-room, opening into a conservatory, with a
fountain and gold-fish, to say nothing of flowers (I am passionately
fond of flowers), and such a boudoir of my own, where nobody ever
intrudes except my special favourites--Cousin John, for instance, when
he is not in disgrace--and which I have fitted up and furnished quite to
my own taste. There's the "Amazon" in gilt bronze, and a bas-relief
from the Elgin marbles--not coloured like those flaxen-haired
abominations at Sydenham, but pure and simple as the taste that created
it; and an etching Landseer did for me himself of my little Scotch
terrier growling; and a veritable original sketch of Horace Vernet--in
which nothing is distinguishable save a phantom charger rearing
straight up amongst clouds of smoke. Then I've put up a stand for my
riding-whips, and a picture of my own thoroughbred favourite horse
over the chimney-piece; altogether, Aunt Deborah describes the
apartment exactly when she says to me, as she does about once a week,
"My dear, if you were a man, I should say your room was fitted up in
the most perfect taste; but as you happen to be a young lady, I won't say
what I think, because I know you won't agree with me;" and I certainly
do not agree with Aunt Deborah upon a great many subjects.
However, there's no situation like Lowndes Street. I'm not going to tell
the number, nor at which end of the street we live; for it's very
disagreeable