Depressed with reaction and heavy with unwonted sleeping by daylight, she was glad to go from her dressing-table to the carriage waiting to take herself and her aunt for the customary drive. It was but a moment before her mind was startled into its accustomed activity.

"Mr. Warner has disappeared again." Mrs. Nunn tilted her lace parasol against the slanting sun. "Poor Maria!"

"Disappeared?"

"That is the general interpretation. Maria, with whom he was to dine to-night, received a note from him this morning asking to be excused as he was going away for some time; and when Hunsdon rushed down to Hamilton House--unshaved and without his plunge--he was told that the poet was gone; none of the servants could say where nor when he would return. So that is probably the last of the reformed poet. I suppose last night's excitement proved too much for him."

Anne's feeling was almost insupportable, but she forced her tone into the register which Miss Bargarny and her kind would employ to express lively detached regret. "That would be quite dreadful, and most ungrateful. But I do not believe--anything of the sort. No doubt all that reading of his own work stirred his muse and he has shut himself up to write."

"Well, as he always shuts himself up with a quart of brandy at the same time, that is equally the end of him as far as we are concerned. For my part I have never been able to make out what all of you find in him to admire. He would be quite ordinary to look at if it were not for a few good lines, and I never heard him utter a remark worth listening to. And as for fashion! Compare him last night with Lord Hunsdon or Mr. Abergenny!"

"I think myself he made a mistake not to appear in a rolling collar and a Turkish coat and turban! I don't fancy that he emulates Lord Hunsdon or Mr. Abergenny in anything."

"At least not in devotion to you, so you will not miss him. And you have nothing to regret, if he was the fashion--thanks to Maria--for awhile; a young girl should never suffer detrimentals to hang about her. Which of your beaux do you fancy most?" she demanded in a tone elaborately playful.

"Which? Oh, Lord Hunsdon is the better man, and Mr. Abergenny the better beau."

"I don't fancy that Mr. Abergenny's attentions are ever very serious," said Mrs. Nunn musingly. "He certainly could make any young lady the fashion, but he is fickle and must marry fortune. But Hunsdon--he is quite independent, and as steady as"--she glanced about in search of a simile, remembered West Indian earthquakes, and added lamely--"as the Prince Consort himself." Then she felt that the inspiration had been a happy one, and continued with more animation than was her wont: "You know they are really friendly."




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