Regency Buck

Chapter XIII

Not altogether to Miss Taverner’s surprise, Peregrine’s stay in Hertfordshire was prolonged beyond the original week to a fortnight, and again to three weeks. She was warned four times through the medium of the post to expect him, only to receive a hasty scrawl next day postponing his return a little longer; and remarked humorously to her cousin that the sight of the postman’s scarlet coat and cockaded hat in Brook Street was beginning to mean nothing but another put-off. “But it cannot go on for ever,” she said with a twinkle. “Sir Geoffrey must grow tired at last of franking Perry’s letters to me, and then we may expect to see him in town again.”

Meanwhile, Miss Taverner’s days continued to be so fully occupied that she had little leisure for missing her brother. She received two more offers of marriage, both of which she civilly declined; sat to have her portrait taken by Hoppner at the earnest solicitation of her cousin, and twice went to the play in the company of her guardian. He said nothing to annoy her on either of these occasions, but on the contrary talked so much like a sensible man, and saw to her comfort in such a practised manner, that she was quite in charity with him, and could thank him for two pleasant evenings with perfect sincerity.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” he returned. “Do you think I have not had a great deal of pleasure in your company?”

She smiled. “I have not been used to hear you say things so prettily, Lord Worth.”

“No, nor have I been used to find my ward so amiable,” he replied.

She held up her finger. “Do not let us be recalling past differences, if you please! I am determined not to quarrel with you; it is useless to provoke me.”

He looked amused. “Ever, Miss Taverner?”

“Oh, as to that, there is no saying, to be sure! To-night I am your guest, and must accord you a little extraordinary civility, to-morrow I may abuse you with a clear conscience.”

“Indeed! do you mean to do so? Have you received another offer of marriage for me to refuse without consulting you?”

She shook her head. “I hold it to be a bad thing for any female to talk of the offers she may have received,” she said briefly.

“Your opinion does you honour; but you may confide in me with perfect propriety. I conjecture that you have received several. Why do you look so grave?”

She raised her eyes to his face, and found that he was watching her with a softened expression, which she might almost have believed to be sympathy, had she not been persuaded that he knew nothing of so gentle an emotion. She said in a desponding tone: “It is quite true. I have received numerous offers, but there is nothing to boast of in that, for I think not one of them would have been made had I not been possessed of a large fortune.”

He replied coolly: “None, I imagine.”

There was no vestige of sympathy in his voice. If her spirits stood in need of support this matter-of-fact tone was no bad thing. She was obliged to smile, though she said with a faint sigh: “It is a melancholy thought.”

“I cannot agree with you. Being born to a handsome independence you have all the consequence of being the most sought-after young woman in London.’”

“Yes,” she said rather sadly, “but to be sought after for one’s fortune is no great compliment. You laugh at me, but in this respect I must think myself most uncomfortably circumstanced.”

“Depend upon it, your fortune will not frighten away an honest man,” he replied.

“Why, no, that is left for you to do,” she said playfully.

He smiled. “I will not allow it to have been so. I have frightened away fortune-hunters, and you should be grateful to me.”

“Perhaps I am. But I am quite at a loss to know why, having said that you will not consent to my marriage while I am your ward, you raise no objection to Perry’s engaging himself.”

“Miss Fairford seems to be an unexceptional girl. I am indulging the hope that if I ever let Peregrine marry her she will relieve me of some at least of my responsibilities.”

“You should reflect that my husband would relieve you of them all,” she said.

The carriage had stopped in Brook Street by this time; as the door was opened the Earl said: “You are mistaken: I have no wish to be relieved of them all.”

It was fortunate that in the business of being handed out of the carriage the necessity of answering should be lost. Judith had no answer ready. Her guardian’s words argued an attempt at gallantry, yet his manner was so far removed from the lover-like, that she was quite at a loss to understand him. She stepped down from the carriage, remarking as she did so that it now seemed to be a certain thing that Peregrine would be in London again the following day.

He had apparently no objection to this change of subject. “Indeed! You do not fear another put-off?”

“No, I believe we may be sure of seeing him this tune. One of the children, Lady Fairford’s youngest, has the sore throat, and they fear it may be found to be infectious. Perry is to come home.”

“At what hour do you expect him?”

“I do not know, but I cannot suppose that he will be late.”

The footman was holding open the front door. The Earl said: “Very well, I must be glad for your sake. Good night, my ward.”

“Good night, my guardian,” said Miss Taverner, giving him her hand.

Peregrine arrived in London midway through the afternoon, in a glow of health and spirits. He had had a capital time, was sorry to have left; there was no place like the country, after all. He and Tom Fairford had made the journey in famous time, though not without adventure. Judith must remember that he had travelled into Hertfordshire in his own curricle, instead of going post. Well, as she might suppose, he had returned in the same way, and had engaged to reach town ahead of Tom Fairford, also driving a curricle-and-four.

“I was driving my bays, you know. Tom had a team of greys—showy, but a trifle on the large size: heavy brutes, very well for hilly work, I daresay, but no match for my bays. I drew ahead pretty soon, taking the Hatfield road, the Fairfords’ place being situated, as I believe I told you, considerably to the east of St. Albans. In going there I took the road through Edgware and Elstree, but found it to be in no good case.”

“No,” agreed his sister patiently. “You wrote as much to me: you were determined to come back by the Great North road. I remember my cousin being surprised at it, thinking the other way more direct.”

“Oh yes, I believe it may be, but a bad road: no chance of springing your horses on it. Worth told me as much, advised the North Road at the outset, but I thought I would try the other. However, that’s neither here nor there. We ran a ding-dong race to Hatfield, and drew level at Bell Bar, the turnpike man being deaf, as I suppose, and keeping me waiting a good three minutes before he would open the gate. But it may have been that new man of mine I had with me. He carried the yard of tin, you know, but he has no notion how to sound it—put me out of all patience. I daresay the pike-keeper might not hear it at first. So Tom drew level with me there, and we had a famous race of it to Barnet. His nags were blowing by that tune, and he changed them at the Green Man. Mine had got their second wind some way back; I pushed on to Whetstone, had a fresh team harnessed up there—small quick-steppers, capital for a flat stage—and was away before Tom came in sight. Well, as you remember, Ju, you come on to Finchley Common past Whetstone. You know how we saw Turpin’s Oak, and wondered whether we should be held up by highwaymen. No sign of highwaymen that day, but would you believe it, I was held up to-day!”

“Good God!” Judith exclaimed. “You were actually robbed?”

“No such thing. But I will tell you. I had not driven a great distance over the Common—had not reached Tally Ho Corner, in fact—when I caught sight of a horseman, half-hidden from me by some trees. I was travelling at a smart pace, as you may guess—nothing on the road beyond a post-chaise met with half a mile back—and I made nothing of this rider, hardly noticed him. Imagine my amazement when a shot came whistling by my head! I believe it must have killed me, only that that man of mine, chancing to catch sight of the rogue as he was about to fire, fairly knocked me out of my seat. So the bullet went wide, and there we were, Hinkson snatching at the reins, and one of the leaders with his leg over the trace. I thought we had been overset at any moment. I need not tell you it did not take me long to snatch my pistol from the holster, but I’d no luck; could not well see our man for the trees. I took my shot at a venture, and missed. Hinkson thrust the reins into my hands, and just as our man comes out of the thicket, what does Hinkson do but whip out a pistol from his picket, and fire it! Did you ever hear of a groom carrying pistols before? But so it was. He fired, and our man lets a squawk, claps his hand to his right arm, and drops his barker. By that time I’d pulled out our second pistol, but there was no need to use it. The rascal was making off as fast as his horse would carry him, and when Tom came up, as he soon did, we had the leaders disentangled, and were ready to be off again.”

“Merciful heavens!” cried Mrs. Scattergood. “You might have been killed!”

“Oh well, I daresay I should not have been. I daresay the rogue only fired to frighten us, though the shot seemed to pass devilish close. If he had robbed me he would have found himself out of luck, for I’d no more than a couple of guineas in my purse. Ju, you are looking quite pale! Nonsensical girl, it was nothing! The merest brush!”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “The merest brush. Yet to have you fired upon, the shot coming so close, and the man riding up afterwards, as though to finish his work—it terrifies me, I confess! You are safe, and unhurt, and that must satisfy me—should satisfy me, yet does not.”

He put his arm round her. “Why, this is nothing but an irritation of nerves, Ju! It’s not like you to quake for such a small cause. You refine too much upon it. Ten to one but the fellow had no thought of injuring me.”

“I daresay he might not. Perhaps I do refine too much upon it; it has taken strong possession of my mind, I own. The danger you so lately passed through, and now this! But I am fanciful; you need not tell me so.”

“Oh, if you are to recall that meeting, I have done!” he said, impatiently. “There can be no connection.”

She agreed to it, and said no more. Having told his tale he did not wish to be still talking of it, and what vague fears she might still cherish she kept to herself. He began to speak of the hunting he had enjoyed, of the company to be met with in Hertfordshire, the Assembly they had attended, and a dozen other circumstances of his visit. She had time to recover her composure, and was ready, upon Peregrine’s having no more to say, to recount her own diversions since their last meeting. Belvoir must be described, Worth’s unusually gentle manners touched upon, and finally the Duke of Clarence’s attentions laughed over.

These had become most marked. From the day of their first meeting the Duke had lost no opportunity of fixing his interest with her. She could no longer be in any doubt of his intentions. If she drove in the Park she might place a reasonable dependence on meeting him, and being obliged to take him up beside her; if she went to the play the chances were he would be there too, and would find his way to her box; if a posy of flowers, a box of sugar-plums or some pretty trifle to ornament her drawing-room were delivered at the house, his card would almost certainly accompany it. He was for ever calling in Brook Street, and put forward so many schemes for her entertainment, including even an invitation to make one of a party at his house at Bushey for Christmas, that she was hard put to it to know how to discourage him without the appearance of incivility.

Peregrine thought it a very good joke, and the notion of a prince paying addresses to his sister provoked him to laughter whenever he happened to think of it.

“Odious boy!” Judith said, trying to frown. “Pray, why should he not? I hope I am as respectable as Miss Tylney Long, and I believe it to be a fact that the Duke has proposed to her several times.”

“What, the Pocket Venus?” exclaimed Peregrine. “I did not know that! I thought Wellesley Poole was casting his eyes in her direction.”

“Very possible,” said Judith. looking scornful. “I ought to be flattered at his casting his eyes first in my direction, I suppose. Sometimes, Perry, I could wish that I had been born merely to a respectable competence instead of to a fortune.”

“Stuff!” replied Peregrine. “You would not like that at all, let me tell you. And as for this notion of Tarry Breeks proposing to you—pho, I’ll lay you ten to one he don’t do it!”

“He will not if I can prevent him,” said Judith decidedly.

This proved, however, to be a feat beyond her powers. Neither coldness of manner nor direct rebuff made the least impression on the Duke, and having made up his mind that he had found an eligible partner in Miss Taverner, he lost very little time in declaring himself.

The moment he chose was a fortunate one for him, Judith being engaged in writing letters in the drawing-room when he called, and Mrs. Scattergood having driven out to buy some satin for a new cap. He was ushered into the room, carrying a tight bunch of flowers, and having warmly shaken Miss Taverner by the hand, pressed his posy upon her, remarking with a satisfied air: “I see you are alone. Now, that is just what I had hoped! How d’ye do? But I need not ask. Such a bloom of health! You are always in looks!”

Judith, accepting the posy with a word of thanks, hardly knew how to reply to this, and could only beg him to be seated. He made her a very gallant bow, indicating the sofa with a wave of his hand, and, feeling a little helpless, she sat down in one corner of it.

He took his place beside her, and fixing his bright blue eyes on her face said jovially: “This is a luxurious state indeed, to be finding myself tête-à-tête with you! But you know that we have not settled it that you are to spend Christmas at Bushey. Come now, you will not be so unkind as to refuse me! We will have a snug party. I will engage for your liking Bushey excessively. Everyone does! It is a neat little box, I can tell you. I was used to have a house at Richmond, but from one cause or another I gave it up, and when they made me Ranger of Bushey Park I went to live there. It suits me very well. I don’t care so much for the river, do you?”

“Perhaps it may be damp to live beside,” said Judith, glad to be getting away from the subject of Christmas. “I must own I have a decided partiality for it, however.”

“Well, for my part, I don’t see what there is to make so much of in the Thames,” said the Duke. “You are all in raptures over it, but I am quite tired of it. There it goes, flow, flow, flow, always the same!”

She was obliged to hide a smile. Before she could think of any suitable rejoinder he was off again. “But I did not come to talk of the river, after all. Christmas! Now what do you say to it?”

“I am very grateful to you, sir—honoured as well, I am sure beyond my deserts—but it must not be.”

“Grateful—honoured! Pho, pho, don’t use high-sounding phrases to me, I beg of you! You should know I am a plain sort of a man, never stand upon ceremony, think it all stuff and nonsense! Why should you not come? If you are thinking it would not be just the party you would like I will engage for it it will be. You may have the ordering of it, may look over the list of guests, and have it all as you choose.”

“Thank you, thank you, but you misunderstand me, sir! Consider, if you please, how particular an appearance my joining your party must present! It is not what either of us could wish.”

“Well, there you are quite in the wrong,” said the Duke bluntly. “It is of all things what I should like most. It cannot seem too particular for my taste.” He leaned towards her, and seized her hands. “My dear, dear Miss Taverner, you cannot be unaware of my feelings! You won’t expect pretty speeches from me; you know how it is with me: I am just a sailor, and say what I think: but I have the deepest regard for you—damme, I am head over ears in love with you, my dear Miss Taverner, and don’t care who hears me say it!”

He had her hands clasped so tightly that she was unable to move. She could only turn her head away, saying in a good deal of confusion: “Please say no more! You do me too much honour! Indeed, I am sorry to give you pain, but it is impossible!”

“Impossible! How so? I see no impossibility. Ah, I daresay you are thinking I am too old a fellow to be addressing you, but I have the best health of all my family, you know. You will see how I shall outlive them. Have you thought of that?”

She made another attempt to disengage herself. “No, indeed, how should I? I am sure I wish you may, but it cannot concern me. It is not on the score of your more advanced age that I find myself obliged to decline your offer, but our different situations, my own feelings—I beg of you, let us speak of this no more!”

An idea dawned on him; his rather protuberant blue eyes gleamed with intelligence. “I see how it is!” he said in his hurried way. “I am a clumsy fellow, I do not make myself plain! But it is marriage, you know, that I am offering you—everything in proper sailing trim, upon my word of honour!”

“I did not mistake you,” she said in a suffocating voice. “But you must perceive how impossible such an alliance would be! Were I to consent to it can you suppose that there would be no opposition from your family?”

“Oh, you mean my brother, the Regent! I do not know why he should oppose it. He is not at all a bad fellow, I assure you, whatever you may have heard to the contrary. There’s Charlotte to succeed him, and my brother York before me. You may depend upon it he thinks the Succession safe enough without taking me into account. But you do not say anything! You are silent! Ah, I see what it is, you are thinking of Mrs, Jordan! I should not have mentioned her, but there! you are a sensible girl; you don’t care for a little blunt speaking. That is quite at an end: you need have no qualms. If there has been unsteadiness in the past that is over and done with. You must know that when the King was in his senses we poor devils were in a hard case—not that I mean anything disrespectful to my father, you understand—but so it was. We have all suffered—Prinny, and Kent, and Suss, and poor Amelia! There’s no saying but that we might all of us have turned out as steady as you please if we might have married where we chose. But you will see that it will all be changed now. Here am I, for one, anxious to be settled, and comfortable. You need not consider Mrs. Jordan.”

Miss Taverner succeeded at last in drawing her hands away. “Sir, if I could return your regard perhaps the thought of that lady might not weigh with me, but surely she must be considered, cannot be put quite out of mind?”

“Oh,” said the Duke earnestly, “I was never married to her, you know. No, no, you have that quite wrong! There are no ties binding us, none at all!”

She could not forbear giving him a look of shocked reproach. “No ties, sir?”

“You mean the children, do you?” said the Duke eagerly. “But you will like them excessively! I do not believe there can be better children in the world.”

“Yes, sir, indeed I have always heard—but you do not understand me! It is not on that count that I—pray believe, sir, that what you propose can never be! You must marry some lady of rank, some princess; you know it must be so!”

“Not at all, not at all!” declared the Duke, puffing out his cheeks. “There can be no objection, no hitch of any sort. You are not to be thinking this is cream-pot love, as they say, because, when I am married, you know, Parliament will make me a grant, and I shall pay off my debts, and be all right and tight. We shall do delightfully!”

Miss Taverner got up, and moved away from him to the window. “We should not suit, sir. I thank you for the honour you have done me, but do most earnestly beg you not to distress me by persisting in it. I cannot return your regard.”

The Duke looked very much crestfallen at this, and asked in a desponding voice whether her affections were bestowed elsewhere. “I thought it might be so; I was afraid someone might have been before me, for all I’ve crowded all sail to be first with you.”

“No, sir, my affections are not engaged, but—”

“Oh well, in that case there is no need to be down in the mouth,” said the Duke, brightening. “I have taken you too much by surprise, but when you have thought it over you will see how you will come round to it.”

“I assure you, sir, my resolution is formed. For your friendship, which you have been so kind as to bestow on me, I have the highest value; but anything of a warmer nature—you understand me: I need say no more.”

“No, no, where’s the use in talking?” agreed the Duke. “I have been too quick; you are not well enough acquainted with me yet to give me an answer.”

Miss Taverner began to despair of making any impression on him. She turned. “It is useless, sir. Apart from my own sentiments, you must know that my guardian, Lord Worth, is resolved not to consent to my marriage while I remain his ward. He will not countenance so much as a betrothal. He has said it, and, I believe, means it.”

The Duke looked much struck at this, blinked rapidly once or twice, and began to walk about the room with his hands under his coat-tails. “Well, well! Bless my soul!” he ejaculated. “What should he do that for? This is very odd hearing, upon my word!”

“Yes, sir, but so it is. His mind is made up.”

“The strangest fellow! However, though I am not one to make a great parade of my rank, I hope, I am not quite anybody, and you may depend upon it Worth will sing a different tune when I see him. That is what I shall do; that will be best. I do not set a great deal of store by such things, you know, but I like to have everything ship-shape, and I will get Worth’s permission to pay my addresses. I should like to have it all done with propriety. Ay, that’s the best tack: I must see Worth, and then, you know, you can have no objection. And I’ll tell you what! I have a famous notion in my head now! I will have Worth come to spend Christmas at Bushey with us!”

He beamed upon her with such goodwill, and seemed to have so simple a pride in his famous notion that Miss Taverner had not the heart to protest further. She could only trust in her guardian’s ability to rescue her from her difficulties, and wish the Duke good-day with as much reserve of manner as was compatible with the civility she must feel to be his due. He impressed upon her once more that he should approach her guardian; she assented; and so they parted.

She was not without hope that a period of calm reflection might damp her royal suitor’s ardour; she had no notion of his hurrying off post-haste to call upon Worth, and had every intention of warning the Earl at the first opportunity of what was in store for him.

With this resolve in mind she was glad when, at Almack’s that evening, she perceived her guardian to be present. He was standing beside Lady Jersey when she came in, his handsome head bent to hear what her ladyship was saying, but he soon caught sight of Miss Taverner, and bowed. A very friendly smile brought him across the room to her side to beg the honour of a dance.

Judith, who was looking quite her best in Indian mull muslin draped with gold Brussels lace, expressed her willingness, but before going with him to take her place in the set which was forming, she put out her hand to draw forward Miss Fairford, who had come to the Assembly in Mrs. Scattergood’s charge.

“I think, sir, you are not acquainted with Miss Fairford. Harriet, you must permit me to present Lord Worth.”

Miss Fairford, who, from hearing Peregrine’s unflattering description of his guardian, already stood in considerable awe of him, was quite overpowered by his commanding height and air of consequence. She hardly dared to raise her eyes to his face. He bowed, and said something civil enough to embolden her to peep up at him for a moment. Her soft eyes encountered his hard ones, which seemed to be looking her over with a sort of indifferent criticism. She blushed, and retreated again to Peregrine’s side.

Lord Worth led Judith into the set. “Do you like timid brown mice?” he inquired.

“Sometimes, when they are as good as Miss Fairford,” she replied. “Do not you?”

“I?” he said, lifting his brows. “What a singularly stupid question! No, I do not.”

“I don’t understand why you should call it a stupid question,” said Judith with spirit. “How should I know what you like?”

“You might guess, I imagine, but I shall not gratify your vanity by telling you.”

She gave a start, and shot a quick, indignant look up at him. “Gratify me! That would not gratify me, I assure you!”

“You take too much for granted, Miss Taverner. What would not gratify you?”

She bit her lip. “You lose no opportunity to put me in the wrong, Lord Worth,” she said in a mortified voice.

He smiled, and as their hands joined in the dance pressed hers slightly. “Don’t look so downcast. I did mean just what you thought. Are you satisfied?”

“No, not at all,” said Judith crossly. “This is a foolish conversation; I do not like it. I was glad to see you here to-night, for I wanted particularly to speak to you, but you are in one of your disagreeable moods, I see.”

“On the contrary, my temper is more than usually complaisant. But you are behindhand. I have heard the news, and must wish you joy.”

“Wish me joy?” repeated Judith, looking at him in a startled way. “What can you mean?”

“I understand you are to become a Duchess in the near future. You must allow me to offer you my sincere felicitations.”

They were separated at this moment by the movement of the dance. Judith’s brain, as she went down the set, was whirling; she could scarcely perform her part in the dance, nor contain her impatience till she and Worth came together again. No sooner were they confronting each other once more than she demanded: “How can you talk so? What do you mean?”

“I beg pardon. Is it to be kept a secret?”

“A secret!”

“You must forgive me. I had thought that only my consent was wanting before the engagement was to be made public.”

She turned quite pale. “Good God! You have seen him, then!”

“Certainly. Did you not send him to me?”

“Yes—no! Do not trifle with me! This is dreadful!”

“Dreadful?” said his lordship, maddeningly calm. “You could hardly make a more brilliant match, surely! You will have all the comfort and consequence of a most superior establishment, a position of the first consideration, and a husband who must be past the age of youthful folly. You are to be congratulated; I could not have wished to see you more creditably provided for. In addition you will be assured of suitable female companionship in the person of your eldest daughter-in-law, Miss Fitzclarence, whom I believe to be near your own age.”

“You are laughing at me!” Judith said uncertainly. “I am sure you are laughing at me! Do pray tell me you did not give your consent!”

He smiled, but would not answer. They were again separated, and when they met once more he began to talk in his languid way of something quite different. She answered very much at random, trying to read his face, and when the dance came to an end, suffered him to lead her into the tea-room, away from her own party.

He procured a glass of lemonade for her, and took up a position beside her chair. “Well, my ward,” he said, “did you, or did you not, send Clarence to me?”

“Yes, I did—that is to say, he said he should go to you, and I agreed, because I could not make him realize that I don’t wish to marry him. I thought I might depend on you!”

“Oh!” said Worth. “That is not precisely as I understood the matter. The Duke seemed to be in no doubt of the issue once my consent was obtained.”

“If you thought that I would ever marry a man old enough to be my father you did me a shocking injustice!” said Miss Taverner hotly. “And if you had the amazing impertinence to suppose that his rank must make him acceptable to me you insult me beyond all bearing!”

“Softly, my child: I thought neither of these things,” said his lordship, slightly amused. “My experience of you led me instead to suppose that you had sent your suitor to me in a spirit of pure mischief. Was that an injustice too?”

Miss Taverner was a little mollified, but said stiffly: “Yes, it was, sir. The Duke of Clarence would not believe I meant what I said, and the best I could think of was for you to help me. I made sure you would refuse your consent!”

“I did,” said the Earl, taking snuff.

“Then why,” demanded Miss Taverner, relieved, “did you say you wished me joy?”

“Merely to alarm you, Clorinda, and to teach you not to play tricks on me.”

“It was no trick, and you are abominable!”

“I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

She flashed an indignant look at him, and set her empty glass down on the table with a snap. The Earl offered her his snuff-box. “Will you try this mixture? I find it tolerably soothing to the nerves.”

Miss Taverner relented. “I am very sensible of what an honour that is,” she said, helping herself to an infinitesimal pinch. “I suppose you could do no more.”

“Not while I continue to occupy the post of guardian,” he agreed.

She lowered her gaze, and said in a hurry: “Did the Duke mention his plan of inviting me (and you too) to Bushey for Christmas?”

“He did,” said the Earl. “But I informed him that you would be spending Christmas at Worth.”

Miss Taverner drew in her breath sharply, inhaled far more of his lordship’s snuff than she had meant to, and sneezed. “But I am not!” she said.

“I am sorry if it should be repugnant to you, but you are certainly spending Christmas at Worth,” he replied.

“It is not repugnant, precisely, but—”

“You relieve my mind of a weight,” said his lordship satirically. “I was afraid it might be.”

“It is very obliging of you, but since you have refused your consent to the Duke’s paying his addresses to me he cannot now expect me to make one of his party. I should prefer to spend Christmas with Perry.”

“Naturally,” said the Earl. “I was not proposing that you should come to Worth without him.”

“But Perry has no notion of going to Worth!” protested Miss Taverner. “I daresay he has quite different plans in his mind!”

“Then he will put them out of his mind,” replied the Earl. “I prefer to keep Perry under my eye.”

He offered his arm, and after a slight hesitation she rose, and laid her hand on it, and allowed him to lead her back into the ballroom. It had occurred to her that she was by no means averse to going on a visit to Worth.