Comedies of Courtship. Anthony Hope
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but what’s the good of talking about it? Everybody laughs.”
Miss Bellairs put down her parasol.
“I shouldn’t laugh,” she said softly. “It’s horrid to laugh at people when they’re in trouble,” and her eyes were very sympathetic.
“You are kind. I don’t mind talking about it to you. You know I’m not the sort of fellow who falls in love with every girl he meets; so of course it’s worse when I do.”
“Was it just lately?” murmured Dora.
“Last summer.”
“Ah! And—and didn’t she——?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Yes, hang it, I believe she did. She was perfectly straight, Miss Bellairs. I don’t say a word against her. She-I think she didn’t know her own feelings until—until I spoke, you know—and then——”
“Do go on, if—if it doesn’t——”
“Why, then, the poor girl cried and said it couldn’t be because she—she was engaged to another fellow; and she sent me away.”
Miss Bellairs was listening attentively.
“And,” continued Charlie, “she wrote and said it must be good-by and—and——”
“And you think she——?”
“She told me so,” whispered Charlie. “She said she couldn’t part without telling me. Oh, I say, Miss Bellairs, isn’t it all damnable? I beg your pardon.”
Dora was tracing little figures on the gravel with her parasol.
“Now what would you do?” cried Charlie. “She loves me, I know she does, and she’s going to marry this other fellow because she promised him first. I don’t suppose she knew what love was then.”
“Oh, I’m sure she didn’t,” exclaimed Dora earnestly.
“You can’t blame her, you know. And it’s absurd to—to—to—not to—well, to marry a fellow you don’t care for when you care for another fellow, you know!”
“Yes.”
“Of course you can hardly imagine yourself in that position, but suppose a man liked you and-and was placed like that, you know, what should you feel you ought to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” exclaimed Dora, clasping her hands. “Oh, do tell me what you think! I’d give the world to know!”
Charlie’s surprised glance warned her of her betrayal. “You mustn’t ask me.” she exclaimed hastily.
“I won’t ask a word. I—I’m awfully sorry, Miss Bellairs.”
“Nobody knows,” she murmured.
“Nobody shall through me.”
“You’re not very—? I’m very ashamed.”
“Why? And because of me! After what I’ve told you!”
Charlie rose suddenly.
“I’m not going to stand it,” he announced.
Dora looked up eagerly.
“What? You’re going to——?”
“I’m going to have a shot at it. Am I to stand by and see her——? I’m hanged if I do. Could that be right?”
“I should like to know what one’s duty is?”
“This talk with you has made me quite clear. We’ve reasoned it out, you see. They’re not to be married for two or three months. A lot can be done in that time.”
“Ah, you’re a man!”
“I shall write first. If that doesn’t do, I shall go to her.”
Dora shook her head mournfully.
“Now, look here, Miss Bellairs you don’t mind me advising you?”
“I ought not to have let you see, but as it is—”
“You do as I do, you stick to it. Confound it, you know, when one’s life’s happiness is at stake—”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“One mustn’t be squeamish, must one?”
And Dora Bellairs, in a very low whisper, answered, “No.”
“I shall write to-night.”
“Oh! To-night?”
“Yes. Now promise me you will too.”
“It’s harder for me than you.”
“Not if he really——.”
“Oh, indeed, he really does, Mr. Ellerton.”
“Then you’ll write?”
“Perhaps.”
“No. Promise!”
“Well—it must be right. Yes, I will.”
“I feel the better for our talk, Miss Bellairs, don’t you?”
“I do a little.”
“We shall be friends now, you know; even if I bring it off I shan’t be content unless you do too. Won’t you give me your good wishes?”
“Indeed I will.”
“Shake hands on it.”
They shook hands and began to stroll back to the tennis-courts.
“They look a little better,” observed Sir Roger Deane, who had been listening to an eloquent description of the gaming-tables.
Dora and Charlie walked on towards the hotel.
“Hi!” shouted Sir Roger. “Tea’s coming out here.”
“I’ve got a letter to write,” said Charlie.
“Well, Miss Bellairs, you must come. Who’s to pour it out?”
“I must catch the post, Sir Roger,” answered Dora.
They went into the house together. In the hall they parted.
“You’ll let me know what happens, Mr. Ellerton, won’t you? I’m so interested.”
“And you?”
“Oh—well, perhaps,” and the sallow of her cheeks had turned to a fine dusky red as she ran upstairs.
Thus it happened that a second letter for John Ashforth and a second letter for Mary Travers left Cannes that night.
And if it seems a curious coincidence that Dora and Charlie should meet at Cannes, it can only be answered that they were each of them just as likely to be at Cannes as anywhere else. Besides, who knows that these things are all coincidence?
CHAPTER III. — A PROVIDENTIAL DISCLOSURE
On Wednesday the eleventh of April, John Ashforth rose from his bed full of a great and momentous resolution. There is nothing very strange in that, perhaps it is just the time of day when such things come to a man, and, in ordinary cases, they are very prone to disappear with the relics of breakfast. But John was of sterner stuff. He had passed a restless night, tossed to and fro by very disturbing gusts of emotion, and he arose with the firm conviction that if he would escape shipwreck he must secure his bark by immovable anchors while he was, though not in