Chapter 19: The Few Words at the End of the Evening

There were five of them at dinner--the lovers, the lady’s father, her two hostesses--the Misses Claughton. These were cousins of her mother. Miss Claughton was tall and straight and prim; Miss Nancy Claughton, the younger sister, was stout and tender. Both ladies were disposed to make a fuss of Rodney, to invest him with a sort of halo, as if, in asking Stella to be his wife, he had done something which marked him out as an unusual young man. Mr. Austin’s inclination was towards jocosity. Rodney had long since decided that a sense of humour was not that gentleman’s strongest point. Dry he could be, he had rather an effective trick of it; but funny--no. His persistent efforts to be funny did not improve the flavour of what, from the young gentleman’s point of view, was a sufficiently homely repast. The soup was doubtful, one could not be sure if it was meant to be clear or thick; the cod was boiled to rags--and, anyhow, he hated cod; the mutton was overdone; the sweets were suited to the nursery. Under the circumstances it was perhaps as well that, between Mr. Austin’s jokes, the question chiefly discussed was where they should dine on the morrow. It was some consolation, Rodney felt, that there was a prospect of a decent meal after the passage of another four-and-twenty hours. The gentlemen did not remain at table when the feast was done; Mr. Austin was a teetotaller, and Rodney, when he had tasted Miss Claughton’s claret, wished he was; so there was no temptation to linger over the wine. In the drawing-room they had “music.” Stella played and sang. Rodney, whose taste in music was as fastidious as in other things, would have been content had she done neither. She had not got a bad little voice; from the point of view of those who liked little voices of the kind; but he had always been of opinion that it was worth more to the professors of singing than to anybody else. Still, she sang straight at him, and for him only; so it was not so bad. Presently Mr. Austin vanished, and the Misses Claughton followed. So he put his arm about Stella’s waist, and that was better. She was even more disposed to be made love to after dinner than before, and somehow she seemed prettier and sweeter and more desirable to him. Under such conditions he was the kind of young man who was bound to shine.

After a while--quite an agreeable while--he led the conversation on to the subject which Mr. Austin had broached in the morning. The lady lent a complacent ear.

“Stella, I have a very serious question which I wish to put to you.”

“What is it? If you can be serious.”

“You will find I can when you have heard my question; I pray you incline your little pink ears unto my question. Will you marry me?”

“Perhaps, some day--silly!”

“When is ‘some day’?”

“When would you like it to be?”

“This day; to-night.”

“Rodney, you--you really mustn’t talk like that.”

“Why mustn’t I?”

“You only proposed last Saturday.”

“Well. Allow a week for that fact to get fixed firmly in your mind, another for preparation, why shouldn’t ‘some day’ be Saturday week?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s you who are ridiculous. If you keep me waiting long I shall kiss you all away.”