Free Second Season by Elsie Lee

Hadn’t expected you in town so soon.”
    “Why, I might say the same of you,” shaking hands heartily. “What keeps you here? Not that it isn’t dashed convenient, we’ll settle everything in comfort. I’m anxious to know what you found at Keighly.”
    Lord Arthur’s rooms were cozy, Mrs. Patch provided an ample dinner suited to the requirements of gentleman of quality, her husband dispensed the contents of his employer’s cellar with a free hand, and the cousins lingered companionably over dinner until past ten. They were then decidedly mellow, but still fit to go out and in a mood for it. “White’s?” Julian suggested. “Or the Great Go, if you prefer.”
    “See who’s there,” Arthur nodded. “If we don’t like ’em, there’s a place in Albemarle Street.”
    The crisp April air had a settling effect. By the time they reached Berkeley Square they were in shape to be aware of no less than three houses offering hospitality this evening. Arthur groaned, “Oh, damme, we should have gone the other way. I forgot Lady Abercrombie’s giving some curst musicale, she’s m’godmother, Julian—always deuced kind, don’t care to offend her.”
    “Abercrombie” and “musicale” struck a faint note in Julian’s memory. He halted abruptly and laughed, “Hah, we’ll present ourselves—briefly, because I warn you there’s a young lady with a harp.”
    “There is always a young lady with a harp,” Arthur shuddered, “and I wish God hadn’t invented ’em.”
    “Which—the harps or the young ladies?” Julian asked irrepressibly. “No, this is a special young lady, Arthur. I have it on no less unimpeachable authority than her elder sister that she has also mastered the pianoforte and is thought to have a singularly pleasing voice.”
    “Good God!”
    “Oh, it is a tale of wild adventure this afternoon in the Park,” Julian was laughing helplessly, sorting through cards drawn from his pocket. “Yes, here it is. Stepan always arms me with all the invitations for the night on the chance I may fancy one. Nothing will quench his hope of eventually turning me into a top gallant.” Thrusting back the others, “Oh, I thought to ride today, and found myself assisting in a rescue.” Rapidly he outlined the details, and had Arthur snorting hilariously at Lady Inverclyde’s comments.
    “Stanwood? Those same whose coach wheels you grazed?”
    Julian nodded. “Met the father at Blandford Park—very sound man—but the daughters, Arthur! The elder, Miss Charlotte Stanwood, is conversable. The younger, Miss Emily,” he threw back his head in a guffaw, “Arthur, she has to be seen to be believed! This will be your privilege tonight.”
    “What’s wrong with her?” his cousin asked suspiciously.
    “Nothing,” Julian gasped, leaning against the lamp post. “Nothing, Arthur. She is angelically beautiful. The sight of her seated at the harp will require only wings to convince the audience they are already within St. Peter’s gates. She is spoken of reverently as THE Incomparable, she fits every classic standard of the ton : a wealth of pure gold curls, immense blue ‘orbs’ for poets to rhapsodize, every indication of shy maidenhood from blushes to downcast eyes ... and not one brain in her head!
    “Arthur, I swear you cannot tear yourself away from her for the fascination of her vapidity. You find yourself hanging upon her rosebud lips for the next bromide, wagering to yourself which she will use. The man who marries her will need either a devilish sense of humor, or no brains at all. Come,” Julian pulled himself together with a final sigh of merriment, “I cannot wait, I die to see your reaction.”
    In the event, it proved impossible, for the musicale was long advanced, the rooms thronged and nearly all seats occupied. The cousins were swept apart by the necessities of courtesy, and when Julian finally gained the music room, Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Apparently a selection had just ended,