he Marquis, in fact, was behaving with unusual circumspection, careful to give the tattle-mongers no food for gossip. Well-aware of his notoriety, of the scandalous on-dits which would instantly attend the least sign he gave of having formed a partiality for Miss Merriville, he was taking inordinate pains to shield her from envious, or merely malicious tongues. To satisfy the curiosity of those who might wonder why he was gratifying so many hostesses by appearing at their balls, drums, and assemblies, he set up the dashing Mrs Ilford as his flirt, knowing that the lively widow’s charms were equalled by her shrewdness: the Marquis, man-of-the-town though he might be, had no desire to break hearts; and the objects of his gallantry had never yet included guileless innocents. In general, he had ignored the handkerchiefs thrown to him, but he had his own, remorseless way with any over-bold damsel who disgusted him by too-obviously setting her cap at him. He would indulge her with a brief, desperate flirtation, conducted under the envious or the shocked eyes of her contemporaries, and, at their next encounter, fail to remember her name, or even that he had met her before. These merciless tactics had earned for him the reputation of being dangerous, and caused prudent parents to warn their daughters against encouraging his advances. They even caused his closest friend to remonstrate with him once or twice, but Mr More-ton’s accusation of cruelty was productive of nothing but a contemptuous smile, and a coldly uttered hope that the victim had learnt her lesson. From the hour of his come-out, the Marquis had been a matrimonial prize, but the years had not taught him to accept this position with equanimity, to tolerate the schemes of match-making mamas, or to be amused by the lures cast out by their ambitious daughters. Since the day of his discovery that his first love would have been as ready to marry a hunchback possessed of his rank and fortune as himself, he had grown steadily more hardened in cynicism, until, at the age of seven-and-thirty, when Frederica thrust herself into his life, he had no more intention of saddling himself with a wife than of throwing himself into the Thames.

But Frederica had seriously ruffled the calm waters of his agreeable existence. Not quite immediately, but soon enough, he had found himself strongly attracted to her, and in a way that was strange to him. The only women who had previously interested him were the well-born flirts, with whom it was amusing to dally, and the barques of frailty with whom he enjoyed more intimate relations. He felt no affection for any of these ladies, and not the smallest wish to establish with any one of them a more permanent connection. To be leg-shackled to a female who, however lively or beautiful she might be, would inevitably become a bore within a very few months was a fate too hideous even to be contemplated. He did not wish for female companionship; and still less did he wish to saddle himself with the trials and responsibilities that attended the married state.

Then came Frederica, upsetting his cool calculations, thrusting responsibilities upon him, intruding more and more into the ordered pattern of his life, and casting him into a state of unwelcome doubt. And, try as he would, he could discover no reason for this uncomfortable change in himself. She had more countenance than beauty; she employed no arts to attract him; she was heedless of convention; she was matter-of-fact, and managing, and not at all the sort of female whom he had ever wished to encourage. Furthermore (now he came to think of it), she had foisted two troublesome schoolboys on to him, which was the last thing in the world he wanted!

Or had she? A rather rueful smile flickered at the corners of his lordship’s mouth as he considered this point. No: she had not. He had allowed himself to yield to the blandishments of Felix (detestable imp!); then Jessamy had got himself into a scrape (tiresome young chub!), and had turned to him for help, which, naturally, had to be given to him; but it would really be quite unjust to blame Frederica for these happenings. She had been as cross as crabs over Jessamy’s affair, top-lofty little peagoose that she was! Top-lofty, gooseish, managing, no more than passably good-looking: why the devil did he like her so much?

Unconsciously following the example Frederica had set, he began to do her justice, trying to discover what quality in her it was which had jerked him out of his idle hedonism into a state of nagging uncertainty. It was a pleasant exercise, but it brought him no nearer to solving the problem. He liked her composure, her frankness, the smile in her eyes, her ready appreciation of the ridiculous, the gay courage with which she shouldered burdens too heavy for a girl to bear, the way she caught herself up guiltily on a cant phrase culled from her brothers’ vocabularies, the intent look which came into her face when she was pondering a ticklish question, the unexpected things she said, and—but what was there in all this to disrupt his present life, and to place his untrammelled future in jeopardy? Nothing, of course: she had certainly aroused in him feelings he had not known he possessed, but she could be no more than a passing fancy.

A frown gathered on his brow as he thought this over. The devil of it was that the more he saw of her the stronger grew the feeling he had for her, which was not love (an emotion which belonged to one’s salad-days), nor yet mere liking. Call it affection! It caused him to think about her far too much for his peace of mind; and (really, he must be growing senile!) to be constantly aware of a wish to lift the burdens from her shoulders. As matters stood, he was powerless to render her any but the most trifling assistance, and none at all in what he guessed must be the greatest of her present anxieties. He had suspected at the outset that she had underestimated the expenses of a London season; and when his experienced eye detected, beneath velvet trimming on a drapery of Albany gauze, the evening dress which had already undergone several transformations, he was very sure that she was beginning to feel purse-pinched. He thought, savagely, that every available groat was squandered on Charis. He was too well-versed in such matters not to recognize that Charis too wore dresses which had been subtly altered to present a new appearance, but he quite unjustly supposed that the cunning hand at work had been Frederica’s, even going to the length of picturing her slaving over her stitchery until the candles guttered in their sockets. Had he been told that the drudgery, as well as the inspiration, belonged to the younger sister (only she did not think it drudgery), he would have been amazed to the point of incredulity, for he had long since decided that Charis had nothing to recommend her but her undeniable beauty. In his lordship’s prejudiced eyes, she lacked what the ton called that certain sort of something, which meant, in a word, quality, and which characterized Frederica. It was apparent, he thought, in whatever Frederica did: from the air with which she wore her furbished-up gowns, to the assurance with which she received visitors in the shabby-genteel house she had hired for the season. But he wanted to remove her from Upper Wimpole Street, and to place her in surroundings worthier of her, furnishing her at the same time with every extravagant luxury, and enough pin-money to enable her to purchase a new gown whenever she chose to do it. And, with all his wealth, the only assistance he had been able to render her was the discharge of Jessamy’s and Lufra’s trifling debts! There was the possibility that he might be granted the opportunity to render further assistance of the same kind, but even that would fall a long way short of what he would like to do for her.

His frown deepened. That eldest brother of hers was likely to prove an encumbrance rather than a support to her. There was no harm in the boy, but if he was not as volatile as his father he had quite as little sense of responsibility. He would probably settle down happily on his Herefordshire estate in a year or two; but at present he was clearly bent on enjoying his first London-fling, and was perfectly willing to leave the conduct of his household, the management of his young brothers, and all the problems that attached to a family living on straitened means, in Frederica’s capable hands. The Marquis had been keeping an unobtrusive eye on him; and he believed that it would not be long before Harry found himself in Dun territory. He seemed, mercifully, to have no taste for gaming, so that the Beau Traps on the look out for well-breeched greenheads from the country cast their lures in vain, and very soon abandoned him for likelier prey. Harry could conceive of few duller or more unprofitable ways of spending the evening than in one of the gaming-hells against which Mr Peplow had warned him. It would certainly be agreeable to win a fortune, but he was shrewd enough to guess that fortunes were not won by those who played with a set of persons described by his friend as Greek banditti.

Horses, however, were a different matter. If one were a judge of horseflesh (which Harry prided himself he was); studied the form; kept an eye on Cocker, to see how the odds stood; carefully watched how the Tulips of the Turf were betting their money at Tatt’s and knew when to hedge off, there was every chance that one would come off all right. On the Monday following his arrival in London, he had gone with Mr Peplow to Tattersall’s; and thereafter became a frequent visitor to the subscription room. As he liked the sport more for its own sake than for the money that could be won by backing winners, he went to any race meeting held within reach of the city, driving himself and Barny in a curricle which, acting on the advice of Endymion Dauntry, he had bought (really dog-cheap) in Long Acre. The pair of sweetgoers he acquired to draw the curricle had not been quite so cheap; but, as he rather guiltily pointed out to Frederica, it was false economy to buy cheap prads which would inevitably turn out to be stumblers, or limpers, or incurable millers.

She agreed to this, suppressing the impulse to protest against his extravagance. She was prompted in some measure by the knowledge that criticism from his sister would not be well received; and to a far greater degree by a realization of the expenditure she was herself incurring. Graynard had supplied the money for this London season, and Graynard belonged not to her, but to Harry. She allowed herself to do no more than beg him, half-laughingly, not to outrun the constable. He said impatiently: “Oh, fiddle! I’m not a pauper! Do you expect me to drive job-horses, like a once-a-week beau? Why should I?”

“No, no! Only that the expense of stabling, in London—and a groom besides—”

“Gammon! The merest trifle! If you had had any rumgumption, Freddy, you would have brought our own horses to London, and John-Coachman as well! I can tell you, I don’t like it above half that you should be jauntering about in a job-carriage. It don’t present a good appearance—and if you thought I should have grudged the expense you’re fair and far off!”

She assured him that no such thought had entered her mind, and thereafter said no more. His somewhat censorious brother, Jessamy, was not so forbearing. Not only did he refuse to take the smallest interest in Harry’s neatish pair of Welsh bays, but he condemned their purchase so unequivocally, and with such a total want of the respect due to his senior, that only his sense of propriety (as he told Jessamy) restrained Harry from tipping him a settler.

Thereafter, his family saw little of Harry. His smart new set-out made it an easy matter for him to attend a good many race meetings, and several pugilistic battles, held discreetly out of town, but at such accessible places as Moulsey Hurst, or Copthall Common.

The Marquis knew all about the quarrel, and the resultant coolness between the brothers. He had once or twice invited Jessamy to ride with him in the park, and on one of these occasions they had encountered Harry, trying out the paces of his prime pair. The Marquis had said: “Two very tidy ones! Have you driven them?”

“No! And I don’t mean to!” had replied Jessamy, fire in his eyes, and his upper lip lengthening ominously. “Harry knows very well what I think of this bang-up set-out of his!”

“I’m not so well-informed. What do you think of it?”

That was quite enough: Jessamy told him in explicit terms. He was, in general, reserved to the point of stiffness, but he had long since ceased to regard his lordship in any other light than that of a close and trusted relation; and he hoped that Cousin Alverstoke would give Harry snuff for his reckless extravagance. “Because he don’t care a straw for what I say!” he ended bitterly.

“I don’t suppose he does. It says much for his forbearance that you didn’t—er—receive a chancery suit upon the nob!” had said Alverstoke, adding, with the flicker of a quizzical smile: “How would you like it if Felix raked you down?”

Jessamy had flushed hotly, an arrested look on his face; but after a moment or two he had replied: “Very well, sir! I shouldn’t have said it! But—but it provoked me so much I don’t know how I couldhave kept my tongue between my teeth! Frederica may say that he has a right to do as he pleases, but I think he should be considering how he can best help her, instead of wasting the ready on his own pleasure!”

The Marquis was much in sympathy with this sentiment, but he had not said so, preferring to cast a damper on Jessamy’s wrath, and to point out to him that the purchase of a curricle and a pair of horses was hardly likely to bring the whole family to ruin.

He was sincere in this opinion; and he did not think that Frederica was much worried by Harry’s slight burst of extravagance. But that something was causing her to feel anxious he was reasonably certain; and since it had become, by almost insensible degrees, a matter of importance to him that nothing should be allowed to trouble her, he set about the task of discovering what had brought just a faint look of strain to her eyes. He invited the Merriville sisters, my Lord and Lady Jevington, and Mr Peter Navenby to be his guests at the Opera one evening, mentally holding his sister Louisa and her prosy son in reserve, in case Augusta should spurn his invitation. She did not, however, which, since the Jevingtons also rented a box at the Opera House, surprised him a little, and still more her mild spouse.

Nothing, therefore, could have been more unexceptionable than his lordship’s opera-party; and nothing could have been more exactly ‘calculated to convince even the most suspicious that he was merely doing a guardian’s duty than his lordship’s polite but rather bored demeanour. It was a simple matter for him to engage Frederica in conversation during the interval without attracting attention: he had merely to retire with her to the back of the box, to make room for those of Charis’s admirers who ventured to present themselves. He had said: “I hope you are pleased with me; I shall think myself very ill-used if I don’t receive a fervent expression of your gratitude!”

Only for an instant did she look puzzled; as he watched the laughter spring to her eyes he reflected that she had never yet daunted him by asking, fatally: “What do you mean?” She had said instead: “Indeed, I am very much obliged to you, sir! I only wish—” She paused, sighed, and said: “Don’t you think—now that you have had the opportunity to observe him more closely—that he would be the very man for her?” He glanced at the unconscious Mr Navenby. “Perhaps: how can I tell? Is that what troubles you?”

“No, it doesn’t trouble me, precisely. I am only anxious that she should be comfortably, and happily, established.”

“Then what is it?” he asked.

“Why, nothing! Except that I shall be obliged to turn off the cook, which is a great bore, because she cooks well. But my housekeeper tells me that she is so much addicted to gin that she must go. Can you wonder at it if I appear a trifle harassed?—Though I hoped I did not!”

“Oh, don’t be alarmed! I daresay no one who wasn’t well-acquainted with you would notice the least change in you, and might even be fobbed off with this Canterbury tale about your cook.”

“It isn’t a Canterbury tale!” she said indignantly. “Very well, but the cook hasn’t cut up your serenity, Frederica. Tell me, are you afraid, as Jessamy appears to be, that you will all be brought to a standstill because Harry has bought himself a stylish curricle and pair?”

“Good God, no! I own, I wish he hadn’t done so, for I don’t think he has the least notion of what it will cost him to maintain his own carriage in London, but I promise you it hasn’t cut up my serenity, as you call it! Did Jessamy tell you about it? I wish you will tell him that it is not for him to lecture Harry how he should go on!”

“Oh, I’ve already done so!” he replied.

“Thank you!” she said, with a look of gratitude. “He pays much more heed to you than to anyone else, so I shall indulge myself with the hope that when next he sees Harry he won’t look quite so disapprovingly at him!”

His brows rose. “When next he sees him? Is Harry away, then?”

“Why, yes—just for a day or two! I am not perfectly sure, but I believe—that is, I know he has gone off on an expedition with some friends,” she replied lightly.

“So that’s it!” he said, smiling.

“Indeed it isn’t! How can you be so absurd?”

“Shall I accept that rebuke with a civil bow, or would you prefer me to reassure you?” His smile grew, as her eyes lifted involuntarily to his face in a questioning look. “You are a very good sister, and you don’t in the least object to Harry’s going off with his friends, but you are afraid that he may have got into bad company, are you not? Well, you may be easy on that head: I’m not personally acquainted with young Peplow, but, according to what I hear, he’s not one of what we call the peep-of-day boys. I have little doubt that he and Harry will cut up a number of extremely foolish larks, but that need not concern you: such antics are to be expected of halflings.” He paused, hesitating for a moment before he said: “When I first met you, Frederica, you spoke to me of your father with a frankness which makes it possible for me to tell you that I believe that you have very little need to dread that Harry may follow in his footsteps. I perceive the resemblance between them, but I can also perceive certain differences, the chief being that Harry seems to have no taste for gaming. Does that reassure you?”

She nodded, and replied in a low tone: “Yes—thank you! I own, that—that possibility has been in my mind, though I can’t tell how you should have guessed it.” She smiled at him, in her frank way, saying simply: “You are very good, and I’m truly grateful—in particular for your kindness to my brothers. I don’t know why you should interest yourself in Harry—who can’t even make a false claim to be your ward!—but I do thank you for it!”

He could have told her why he had made it his business to interest himself in Harry, but he had not done so, shying away from what would have come perilously near to the declaration he was determined not to make. She was a darling, but he had no intention of committing himself, and not for the world would he cause her to suffer the least twinge of mortification. Or so he had thought. It was not until later, when he searched his own mind, that he realized that there had been another reason for his abstention: he had been afraid of losing her altogether. He remembered that he had kissed her hand once, and that even that small sign of regard had made her withdraw from him a little. He had retrieved his position almost immediately; but in the resumption of cordial relations there had never been, on her side, any hint that she wanted anything but friendship from him.

This was a new experience. So many traps had been set for him, so many handkerchiefs thrown to him, that it had not previously occurred to him that his suit might not be acceptable to any lady whom he chose to honour with a proposal. But Frederica was not on the catch for him; he was very sure that she would not marry him, or any other man, for the sake of rank or wealth; he was far from sure that she liked him well enough for his own sake to accept an offer from him. Salutary! he thought, with a wry smile; and suddenly wondered whether the ease with which he had captivated Julia Parracombe, the dashing Mrs Ilford, and a score of others, had turned him into a contemptible coxcomb, who believed himself to be irresistible.

He was still, several days later, trying to discover the true state of his own mind, and Frederica’s, when he returned to his house at dusk one evening to find the hall littered with portmanteaux and band-boxes, the two footmen halfway up the stairs, carrying a corded trunk, and his butler wearing an expression of fatherly benevolence.

“What the devil—?” he demanded.

“It’s my Lady Elizabeth, my lord,” explained Wick-en, relieving him of his hat and gloves. “Quite like old times it seems! She arrived not twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, did she?” said his lordship, somewhat grimly.

The Lady Elizabeth—that Poor Eliza, who had married a mere Mr Kentmere—emerged from the library at this moment, still habited in her travelling-dress, and said, with great affability: “Yes, dear Vernon: she did! But you mustn’t fall into raptures! It’s not at all the thing. Besides, I know how delighted you must be!”

She strolled forward as she spoke, a tall, rather lanky woman, the nearest to the Marquis in age of his sisters, and the most like him in countenance, but with more liveliness, and less grace than he possessed. “What an elegant rig!” she remarked, laughing at him. “Everything prime about you!”

“I wish I might return the compliment!” he retorted, lightly kissing her proffered cheek. “What a quiz of a hat! You look like a dowdy, Eliza! What has brought you to London?”

“My quiz of a hat, of course. I must—I positively must buy a new one!” She added, in languishing accents: “If only I could afford to buy a new dress as well—my dear, dear brother!”

Since the only thing that had made the mere Mr Kentmere in any way acceptable to her parents had been his extremely handsome fortune, the Marquis was not deceived. Pushing her into the library, he said, shutting the door: “Try for a little conduct, Eliza!”

She laughed, “As though Wicken didn’t know all there is to be known about us! How is our dear sister Louisa, by the way?”

“I’ve been spared the sight—and sound—of her for over a week.” He scanned her, his eyes narrowed. “Setting aside the hat, what has brought you to London?” “You can’t set aside hats,” she objected. “I must have a new crop, too, and bring myself back into the established mode. However, the thing that really made me come was your own complaint: boredom, my dear!”

“What, tired of rural tranquillity?”

“If,” she said severely, “you ever took the smallest interest in your nephews and nieces, you would not talk to me of tranquillity! We began the year with whooping-cough; three of them had that, one after the other. Hardly had the last whoop died away, than what must Caroline do—at her age, too!—than start in the chicken-pox and communicate it to Tom and Mary! And then Jack brought home some horrid infection from Eton, and they all succumbed to it, even John! I wish I had done so myself, for it would have been much less exhausting! I remained at the Manor, like the devoted wife and mother I am, until they had recovered, and then packed my trunks before any of them had had time to throw out a rash, complain of a sore throat, or break a limb!”

He smiled, but his steady gaze remained on her face. “And for how long do you propose to remain?” he enquired.

“Goodness, I don’t know! a week or two, perhaps. Does it signify? Had you rather I went away?”

“Not at all,” he replied politely.

“Well, I’m glad of that, because I mean to visit my old friends, and pick up all the threads again. Also to look about me for a suitable house to be hired for the season next year. I shall be bringing Caroline out, you know. At least, you don’t, but you should. A house with a ballroom, of course—no, I haven’t any desire to hold a ball under any other roof than my own, so you need not be alarmed! Vernon, what, in the name of all that’s marvellous, prevailed upon you to hold one here for Jane Buxted?”

“I didn’t,” he responded. “I held it in order to present Fred Merriville’s daughters to the ton. Can it be that you didn’t know I had taken upon myself the guardianship of a very beautiful girl?”

She tried to keep her countenance, but broke into laughter under the mockery in his eyes. “No, it cannot be! What a detestable creature you are! Very well, I own I am quite consumed with curiosity. But how came it about?”

“Oh, very simply! You may call it the payment of a debt. I’m not, in fact, the Merrivilles’ guardian, but they were commended to my protection. To launch the beauty into society seemed to be the least I could do—so I did it. That is to say, I persuaded Louisa to do it.”

“Demon!” said his sister appreciatively. “Augusta wrote to me that she was as mad as fire when she clapped eyes on your beauty, and has been glumping ever since! And the other one? Is she a beauty too?”

“Oh, no! Not to compare with Charis!” he said indifferently. “She is the eldest of the family, and has charge of the younger ones. My guardianship, you perceive, is purely nominal: I have really very little to do with them.”

At this somewhat inopportune moment, Wicken entered the room, and said demurely: “Master Felix has called, asking to see your lordship. Shall I show him in, my lord?”

“Now, what the devil does he want?” demanded the Marquis, in accents of foreboding. “Tell him I’m—no, I suppose I shall have to see him: show him in!” He glanced down at his sister, and said, with the hint of a rueful smile: “You are about to make the acquaintance of the youngest Merriville, Eliza—a devilish brat!” He turned his head, as Wicken ushered Felix into the room, and said: “Well, Felix? What’s the scrape?”

“Sir!” uttered Felix, outraged. “There isn’t any scrape!”

“Accept my apologies! Just a social visit! Eliza, allow me to introduce Felix to you: one of my wards! Felix, this is my sister, Lady Elizabeth Kentmere.”

“Oh!—Oh, I didn’t know—I beg pardon, ma’am!” said Felix, looking a trifle discomfited, but achieving a very creditable bow. He cast an anxious glance at Alverstoke. “P’raps I had better come to see you tomorrow, sir? I didn’t mean to—to intrude, only Wicken didn’t tell me—and I have something very particular to say to you!”

Lady Elizabeth, the mother of three hopeful sons, interposed, saying: “Then of course you mustn’t lose a moment! Is your business of a private nature? Shall I excuse myself to my brother, and go away for a while?” Perceiving, from the twinkle in her eyes, that she was what he termed a right one, he grinned engagingly at her, and answered: “Oh, no, ma’am—thank you! It is only a little private! If you won’ttell anyone?”

“I’m true blue, and will never stain!” she replied promptly.

“Cut line, Felix!” commanded Alverstoke. “If it isn’t a scrape, what is it?”

“Well—well, it’s a balloon, Cousin Alverstoke!” disclosed Felix, taking his fence in a. rush.

Lady Elizabeth was betrayed into laughter, which she hastily turned into a fit of coughing; but his lordship merely said, in the voice of one inured to misfortune: “Is it indeed? And what have I—or you, for that matter!—to do with balloons?”

“But, sir—!” said Felix, deeply shocked. “You must know that there is to be an ascension from Hyde Parks on Thursday!”

“I didn’t, however. And let me tell you, here and now, that I have no interest in balloons! So, if you are going to ask me to take you to see this ascension, my answer is NO! You can very well go to Hyde Park without my escort.”

“Yes, but the thing is, I can’t!” said Felix. Suddenly assuming the demeanour of an orphan cast penniless upon the world, he raised melting blue eyes to his lordship’s face, and said beseechingly: “Oh, Cousin Alverstoke, do, pray, go with me! You must! It’s—it’s obligary!” he produced urgently.

“Why is it obligatory?” asked his lordship, preserving his iron calm, but directing a quelling glance at his sorely afflicted sister.

“Well—well, you’re my guardian, and—and I told Cousin Buxted you had invited me to go with you!” said Felix, with disarming frankness. He smiled blindingly at the Marquis, and added: “I knowyou’ll understand when I explain it to you, Cousin Alverstoke! You don’t like Cousin Buxted either!”

“When have I ever said so?” demanded his lordship.

“Oh, you don’t say it, but a pretty good lobcock I should be if I didn’t know it!” replied Felix scornfully. “Besides, when I told you about the bear-garden jaw he gave me when I went on the steam-boat, you said—”

In some haste, the Marquis interrupted, saying: “Yes, well, never mind that! In what way is Buxted concerned with this balloon of yours?”

“He has invited us all to drive with him to the park, to watch the ascension—well, not Harry, but the rest of us!” said Felix, in the voice of one relating a catastrophe. “And don’t you say that it is very kind and obliging of him, sir, like Jessamy, because if you don’t like a person, you don’t wish to be obliged to him!”

“That is very true!” remarked Lady Elizabeth, much struck. “In fact, one would prefer him not to be kind and obliging!”

“Yes, one would!” agreed Felix, bestowing a look of warm approval upon her. “Besides, I know just how it would be, and I had almost liefer not go at all! Because, you may depend upon it, Jessamy will sit on the box, with the coachman, and I should have to sit beside Cousin Buxted and listen to him prosing on and on, and very likely gibble-gabbling to the girls about aeronautics, just as if he knew, which he doesn’t, and then explaining it to me, in a very kind way, and—Oh, you know, sir! I—I couldn’t!” He saw the corners of Alverstoke’s mouth quiver, and said triumphantly: “I knew you would understand! So when I came into the room—not knowing he was there—and Frederica told me that he had invited us, I said I couldn’t go with him, because you had invited me to go with you, sir! And if Jessamy tells you I was rag-mannered it is not true! I thanked him very civilly, I promise you! Yes, and naturally I see that I can’t go at all, if you don’t take me, because that would be uncivil.”

“And you said you weren’t in a scrape! Did you bamboozle your family into believing your mendacious story?”

“Oh, no! Frederica and Jessamy knew it wasn’t true, of course. In fact, Frederica said, afterwards, that she utterly forbade me to plague you to take me. But I am not plaguing you: I am just asking you, sir! She says you don’t wish to see a balloon ascension, but I think it would be a treat for you!”

“Oh, do you?” said the Marquis. “Then let me tell you, you repellent and unscrupulous whelp—”

He was interrupted. “So it would be!” said Lady Elizabeth. “A high treat! For my part, I should enjoy it excessively, because it so happens that I have never watched a balloon ascension. Dear Vernon, you have been wondering how you may best entertain me, haven’t you? And now you know! You shall drive Felix and me to Hyde Park, to see the balloon go up!” “Wretch!” said the Marquis. “Very well!” “Iknew you would!” cried Felix. “I told Jessamy you would!” He paused, before adding tentatively: “In your phaeton, sir?”

“Now, what do you care for phaetons, or horses?” asked Alverstoke. “What you would like me to do would be to drive you to Hyde Park in a Catch-me-who-can!”

“Yes, by Jupiter, wouldn’t I just!” exclaimed Felix, his eyes kindling. “Only you couldn’t, you know, because it ran on lines. The thing is that Jessamy is getting to be so top-lofty, because you let him drive your team, besides riding with him, that there’s no bearing it! So it would be splendid, if you took me instead of him!” A doubt shook him; he cast a look at Lady Elizabeth, and said politely: “If you wouldn’t object to it, ma’am!”

“Certainly not! I shouldn’t dream of watching a balloon ascension from anything so stuffy as a barouche,” she said promptly. “Besides, how else could we take the shine out of Cousin Buxted?”

This very proper speech confirmed him in his impression that she was a right one, and earned for her his fervent gratitude. A caveat, entered by Alverstoke, that phaetons were not designed to accommodate three people, was summarily disposed of, and he then took himself off, leaving Lady Elizabeth to the enjoyment of the mirth that had been consuming her.