Nataly had likewise her thoughts.

CHAPTER VII

BETWEEN A GENERAL MAN OF THIN WORLD AND A PROFESSIONAL

Rather earlier in the afternoon of that day, Simeon Fenellan, thinking of the many things which are nothing, and so melancholy for lack of amusements properly to follow Old Veuve, that he could ask himself whether he had not done a deed of night, to be blinking at his fellow-men like an owl all mad for the reveller’s hoots and flights and mice and moony roundels behind his hypocritical judex air of moping composure, chanced on Mr. Carling, the solicitor, where Lincoln’s Inn pumps lawyers into Fleet Street through the drain-pipe of Chancery Lane.  He was in the state of the wine when a shake will rouse the sluggish sparkles to foam.  Sight of Mrs. Burman’s legal adviser had instantly this effect upon him:  his bubbling friendliness for Victor Radnor, and the desire of the voice in his bosom for ears to hear, combined like the rush of two waves together, upon which he may be figured as the boat:  he caught at Mr. Carling’s hand more heartily than their acquaintanceship quite sanctioned; but his grasp and his look of overflowing were immediately privileged; Mr. Carling, enjoying this anecdotal gentleman’s conversation as he did, liked the warmth, and was flattered during the squeeze with a prospect of his wife and friends partaking of the fun from time to time.

’I was telling my wife yesterday your story of the lady contrabandist:  I don’t think she has done laughing since,’ Mr. Calling said.

Fenellan fluted:  ‘Ah?’ He had scent, in the eulogy of a story grown flat as Election hats, of a good sort of man in the way of men, a step or two behind the man of the world.  He expressed profound regret at not having heard the silvery ring of the lady’s laughter.

Carling genially conceived a real gratification to be conferred on his wife.  ‘Perhaps you will some day honour us?’

‘You spread gold-leaf over the days to come, sir.’

‘Now, if I might name the day?’

’You lump the gold and make it current coin;—­says the blushing bride, who ought not to have delivered herself so boldly, but she had forgotten her bashful part and spoilt the scene, though, luckily for the damsel, her swain was a lover of nature, and finding her at full charge, named the very next day of the year, and held her to it, like the complimentary tyrant he was.’

‘To-morrow, then!’ said Carling intrepidly, on a dash of enthusiasm, through a haggard thought of his wife and the cook and the netting of friends at short notice.  He urged his eagerness to ask whether he might indeed have the satisfaction of naming to-morrow.

‘With happiness,’ Fenellan responded.

Mrs. Carling was therefore in for it.

’To-morrow, half-past seven:  as for company to meet you, we will do what we can.  You go Westward?’