She asked Ingram to luncheon, and
was accepted with a cheerful, "Thanks, most happy." It may have been
malice which turned her to Morosine with the question. "And you? Will you
join us?"
Morosine promptly excused himself. He had guests, and must consider them.
He took ceremonious leave. "You remember, I hope, that I am to see you on
Thursday, Lady Maria. And Miss Percival?" He looked to Sanchia, who did
not turn him her eyes.
"Perfectly," said her ladyship. "What's your hour?"
"We will dine at half-past eight." He named the restaurant. He turned to
pay his farewells to Sanchia. She looked him No, being unable to speak to
him. Her eyes, deep lakes of woe, were crying to him. His answered.
He held out his hand and received hers. "Thursday," he repeated, and left
her with her fate.
Lady Maria, at luncheon, made what she called the best of a bad business.
She treated Ingram to a brisk curiosity. "So you're a wanderer, I hear--
like the Gay Cavalier of my childhood. Your mother may have heard the
song. Mine sang it. I believe that that kind of thing was considered
heroic in her day; in ours, heroism is more difficult, and much more dull.
You might try heroism, Mr.
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