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True, he himself had seen little of her personally, but the name of Peggy Saville was a household word with his people, and one memorable Christmas week, which they had spent together at The Larches in years gone by, might be safely accepted as the foundation of a friendship. "Of course I remember you!" he cried.
"No! you shall pay it to-morrow, for you shall go shares with me to-night. Observe," continued Saville, lowering his voice, "I never lose." "How never?" "Never, unless by design. I play at no game where chance only presides. Whist is my favourite game: it is not popular: I am sorry for it.
The next day Mrs Saville came to lunch, and spent the afternoon at the vicarage. As Maxwell had said, she was a beautiful woman; tall, fair, and elegant, and looking a very fashionable lady when contrasted with Mrs Asplin in her well-worn serge, but her face was sad and anxious in expression.
He was therefore now, in his middle age, and still unmarried, a man decidedly wealthy; having, without ever playing miser, without ever stinting a luxury, or denying a wish, turned nothing into something, poverty into opulence. It was noon; and Saville was slowly finishing his morning repast, and conversing with a young man stretched on a sofa opposite in a listless attitude.
Then he turned back into the gate and the tender mouth that was all Irish above the square Scottish jaw was set tight together. His foot touched the wickered jug and he called Jean Saville. "Take this, Jean," he said, "and give each of the men a cup. 'Tis a shame to waste it." But for himself he had no taste for the stranger's gift of payment.
Now," and he struggled with emotion, and turned away his face, "now it is too late!" Constance was smitten to the heart. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and said, in a sweet and soothing tone, "No, Percy, not too late!" At that instant, and before Godolphin could reply, they were joined by Saville and Lady Charlotte Deerham.
Amidst the regrets of the London world, they made their arrangements, and prepared to set out at the end of the season for the land of Paganini and Julius Caesar. Two nights before their departure, Lady Erpingham gave a farewell party to her more intimate acquaintance. Saville, who always contrived to be well with every one who was worth the trouble it cost him, was of course among the guests.
In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into Mr. Fogg's room. He could not speak. "What is the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "My master!" gasped Passepartout. "Marriage-impossible " "Impossible?" "Impossible for tomorrow." "Why so?" "Because tomorrow is Sunday!" "Monday," replied Mr. Fogg. "No today is Saturday." "Saturday? Impossible!"
The horses broke into a slow trot, and thus delighted with his adventure, the son of the ascetic Godolphin, the pupil of the courtly Saville, entered the town of B , and commenced his first independent campaign in the great world. Our travellers stopped at the first inn in the outskirts of the town.
Montagu had stuck loyally to his colors, but Pizer had drooped under the burden of carrying his patronymic through the theatrical and artistic circles he favored after business hours. Of such is the brotherhood of Israel. "The whole book's written with gall," went on Percy Saville, emphatically. "I suppose the man couldn't get into good Jewish houses, and he's revenged himself by slandering them."
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