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"It's Rowden, and that settles it," murmured Clifford, concealing a grin. For after all he was not Hastings' wet nurse. So it came about that the train which left the Gare St. Lazare at 9.15 a.m. stopped a moment in its career towards Havre and deposited at the red-roofed station of La Roche a merry party, armed with sunshades, trout-rods, and one cane, carried by the non-combatant, Hastings.
Rowden, from whom all our preparations on such occasions were kept sacredly secret, lighted upon the copy of the play, with all the MS. marks and directions for our better guidance in the performance; and great were our consternation, dismay, and disappointment when, with the offending pamphlet in her hand, she appeared in our midst and indignantly forbade the representation of any such piece, after the following ejaculatory fashion, and with an accent difficult to express by written signs: "May, commang! maydemosels, je suis atonnay!
"But I can't make out anyone at all," she said; "it's all a great, sparkling sea of color." "Try the field glasses," replied Gethryn, giving them to her again, at the same time opening her big plumy fan and waving it to and fro beside the flushed cheek. Presently she cried out, "Oh, look! There is Mr Elliott and Mr Rowden, and I think Mr Clifford but I hope not."
Rowden, during the period of her school-keeping in London, was an ardent admirer of the stage in general and of my uncle John in particular, of whom the mezzotint engraving as Coriolanus, from Lawrence's picture, adorned her drawing-room in the Rue d'Angoulême, where, however, the nature and objects of her enthusiasm had undergone a considerable change: for when I was placed under her charge, theatres and things theatrical had given place in her esteem to churches and things clerical; her excitements and entertainments were Bible-meetings, prayer-meetings, and private preachings and teachings of religion.
"That's awfully nice of you, Rowden," cried Gethryn, with a happy smile; "she will have a chance to thank you tonight." He leaned over and touched his face to the flowers. As he raised his head again, his eyes met Braith's. "Hello!" cried Braith, cordially. Rex did not notice how pale he was, and called back, "Hello!" with a feeling of relief at Braith's tone. It was always so.
Like Clifford, he was a capital banjoist, but he insisted that cricket was far superior to baseball, and this was the only bone of contention that ever fell between the two. Clifford played his shameless jokes as usual, accompanied by the enthusiastic applause of Rowden. Clifford also played "The Widow Nolan's Goat" upon his banjo, accompanied by the intricate pizzicatos of Rowden.
After I had been about a year and a half at school, Mrs. Rowden left her house in the Rue d'Angoulême, and moved to a much finer one, at the very top of the Champs Élysées, a large, substantial stone mansion, within lofty iron gates and high walls of inclosure.
The first sensation to the young men was one of disappointment. But the second was that Mademoiselle Descartes' tact had not failed her. The triumvirate were seated upon the sideboard swinging their legs. Rowden cast a satisfied glance at the table laid for fifteen and flicked an imaginary speck from his immaculate shirt front.
Clifford gallantly kissed the little glove and then shook hands with Gethryn. "How is it on the floor?" asked the latter, as Elliott and Rowden came forward to the edge of the box. "I want to take Yvonne out for a turn and perhaps a waltz, if it isn't too crowded." "Oh, it's pretty rough just now, but it will be better in half an hour," replied Rowden, barricading the champagne from Clifford.
"Ah, mon ami, I saved the red rose for you," she whispered; and fastened it upon his breast. And at his whispered answer her cheeks flushed crimson under the white mask. But she sprang up laughing. "I would so like to go onto the floor," she cried, pulling him to his feet, and coaxing him with a simply irresistible look; "don't you think we might just for a minute, Mr Rowden?" she pleaded.
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