Sir George Tressady, vol 1 | Page 5

gown, a work of the most approved Parisian art, was so cut as to show
much more throat than usual, and, in addition, a row of very fine pearls.
Her very elegant waist and bust were defined by a sort of Empire sash;
her complexion did her maid and, indeed, her years, infinite credit.
George flushed slightly at his mother's words, and was turning away
from her when he was gripped by the owner of the house, Squire
Watton, an eloquent and soft-hearted old gentleman who, having in
George's opinion already overdone it greatly at the town-hall in the way
of hand-shaking and congratulations, was now most unreasonably
prepared to overdo it again. Lady Tressady joined in with little shrieks
and sallies, the other guests of the house gathered round, and the hero
of the day was once more lost to sight and hearing amid the general
hubbub of talk and laughter--for the young man in knickerbockers, at
any rate, who stood a little way off from the rest.
"I wonder when she'll condescend to come down," he said to himself,
examining his boots with a speculative smile. "Of course it was mere
caprice that she didn't go to Malford; she meant it to annoy."

"I say, do let me get warm," said Tressady at last, breaking from his
tormentors, and coming up to the open log fire, in front of which the
young man stood. "Where's Fontenoy vanished to?"
"Went up to write letters directly he had swallowed a cup of tea," said
the young man, whose name was Bayle; "and called Marks to go with
him." (Marks was Lord Fontenoy's private secretary.)
George Tressady threw up his hands in disgust.
"It's absurd. He never allows himself an hour's peace. If he expects me
to grind as he does, he'll soon regret that he lent a hand to put me into
Parliament. Well, I'm stiff all over, and as tired as a rat. I'll go and have
a warm bath before dinner."
But still he lingered, warming his hands over the blaze, and every now
and then scanning the gallery which ran round the big hall. Bayle
chatted to Mm about some of the incidents of the day. George answered
at random. He did, indeed, look tired out, and his expression was
restless and discontented.
Suddenly there was a cry from the group of young men and maidens
who were amusing themselves in the centre of the hall.
"Why, there's Letty! and as fresh as paint."
George turned abruptly. Bayle saw his manner stiffen and his eye
kindle.
A young girl was slowly coming down the great staircase which led to
the hall. She was in a soft black dress with a blue sash, and a knot of
blue at her throat--a childish slip of a dress, which answered to her
small rounded form, her curly head, and the hand slipping along the
marble rail. She came down silently smiling, taking each step with
great deliberation, in spite of the outbreak of half-derisive sympathy
with which she was greeted from her friends below. Her bright eyes
glanced from face to face--from the mocking inquirers immediately
beneath her to George Tressady standing by the fire.

At the moment when she reached the last step Tressady found it
necessary to put another log on a fire already piled to repletion.
Meanwhile Miss Sewell went straight towards the new member and
held out her hand.
"I am so glad, Sir George; let me congratulate you."
George put down his log, and then looked at his fingers critically.
"I am very sorry, Miss Sewell, but I am not fit to touch. I hope your
headache is better."
Miss Sewell dropped her hand meekly, shot him a glance which was
not meek, and said demurely:
"Oh! my headaches do what they're told. You see, I was determined to
come down and congratulate you."
"I see," he repeated, making her a little bow. "I hope my ailments,
when I get them, will be as docile. So my mother told you?"
"I didn't want telling," she said placidly. "I knew it was all safe."
"Then you knew what only the gods knew--for I only got in by
seventeen votes."
"Yes, so I heard. I was very sorry for Burrows."
She put one foot on the stone fender, raised her pretty dress with one
hand, and leant the other lightly against the mantelpiece. The attitude
was full of grace, and the little sighing voice fitted the curves of a
mouth which seemed always ready to laugh, yet seldom laughed
frankly.
As she made her remark about Burrows Tressady smiled.
"My prophetic soul was right," he said deliberately; "I knew you would
be sorry for Burrows."

"Well, it is hard on him, isn't it? You can't deny you're a carpet-bagger,
can