“This must not go on: I shall make her come away”--he strode across the room to where (her late partner bending gracefully over her, and talking about nothing with the deepest _empressement_) his wife was seated. CHAPTER XXXIX.--ARABELLA. On perceiving her husband, Alice started, and, between surprise and anger, her cheeks assumed a hue more resembling that violent and unsentimental flower the peony, than the blush-rose, to the use of which our minor poets are so strongly addicted. This blush which, with all his trust in and affection for his wife, Harry could scarcely fail to misinterpret, did not tend to impart any great degree of cordiality to his manner, as he thus accosted her:-- “I scarcely expected to find you still here, so late as it is; but I only reached Park Lane within the last half-hour. There had been an accident on the line, and our train was delayed between two and three hours. You look flushed and tired. You’ve been tempting her to dance too much, I’m afraid, Courtland. I saw the carriage waiting as I came in. I should think you must have had enough of this nonsense, Alice! What say you to coming away? I’ve lots of news to tell you from home.” “I’m afraid your budget must wait a little longer. I’m engaged to Lord Alfred for the next dance, and intend to fulfil my engagement; so you had better submit to your fate quietly, and provide yourself with a partner,” was Alice’s cool reply. “Courtland will excuse you, I am sure,” urged Harry; “come away, if for no better reason than that I wish it.”