Chapter 16.12 - Shirley

It seemed as if Malone wished to justify the preference, for the words were scarcely out of the speaker's mouth when Peter Augustus came up, all in grand tenue, gloved and scented, with his hair oiled and brushed to perfection, and bearing in one hand a huge bunch of cabbage roses, five or six in full blow. These he presented to the heiress with a grace to which the most cunning pencil could do but defective justice. And who, after this, could dare to say that Peter was not a lady's man? He had gathered, and he had given, flowers. He had offered a sentimental, a poetic tribute at the shrine of love or mammon. Hercules, holding the distaff, was but a faint type of Peter bearing the roses. He must have thought this himself, for he seemed amazed at what he had done. He backed without a word. He was going away with a husky chuckle of self-felicitation. Then he bethought himself to stop and turn, to ascertain by ocular testimony that he really had presented a bouquet. Yes. There were the six red cabbages on the purple satin lap, a very white hand with some gold rings on the fingers, slightly holding them together, and streaming ringlets, half hiding a laughing face, drooped over them, only half hiding. Peter saw the laugh. It was unmistakable. He was made a joke of. His gallantry, his chivalry, were the subject of a jest for a petticoat, for two petticoats. Miss Helston, too, was smiling. Moreover, he felt he was seen through, and Peter grew black as a thundercloud. When Shirley looked up, a fell eye was fastened on her. Malone at least had energy enough to hate.