The Convenient Marriage

Chapter Three

The youngest Miss Winwood’s return to South Street was witnessed by both her sisters from the windows of the withdrawing-room. Her absence had certainly been remarked, but since the porter was able to inform the rather agitated governess that Miss Horatia had gone out attended by her maid, no great concern was felt. It was odd of Horatia, and very wayward, but no doubt she had only stolen out to buy the coquelicot ribbons she had coveted in a milliner’s window, or a chintz patch for a gown. This was Elizabeth’s theory, delivered in her soft, peaceable voice, and it satisfied Lady Winwood, lying upon the sopha with her vinaigrette to hand. The appearance of a town coach, drawn by perfectly matched bays with glittering harness, did not occasion more than a fleeting interest until it became apparent that this opulent equipage was going to draw up at the door of No 20.

Charlotte exclaimed: “Lord, who can it be? Mama, a caller!” She pressed her face against the window, and said: “There is a crest on the panel, but I cannot distinguish—Lizzie, I believe it is Lord Rule!”

“Oh no!” Elizabeth fluttered, pressing a hand to her heart.

By this time the footman had sprung down, and opened the coach door. Charlotte grew pop-eyed. “It’s Horry!” she gasped.

Lady Winwood clutched the vinaigrette. “Charlotte, my nerves!” she said in a fading voice.

“But, Mama, it is!” insisted Charlotte.

Elizabeth had a premonition. “Oh, what can she have been doing?” she said, sinking into a chair, and growing quite pale.

“I hope nothing—nothing dreadful!”

Impetuous footsteps were heard on the stairs; the door was opened ungently, and Horatia stood before them, flushed and bright-eyed, and swinging her hat by its ribbon.

Lady Winwood’s hands fumbled with her Medici scarf. “Dearest, the draught!” she moaned. “My poor head!”

“Pray, Horry, shut the door!” said Charlotte. “How can you bounce so when you know how shattered Mama’s nerves are?”

“Oh, I am sorry!” Horatia said, and carefully shut the door. “I forgot. L-Lizzie, everything is settled, and you shall m-marry Edward!”

Lady Winwood was moved to sit up. “Good God, the child’s raving! Horatia, what—what have you been doing?”

Horatia tossed the cloak aside, and plumped down on the stool beside her mother’s sopha. “I’ve b-been to see Lord Rule!” she announced.

“I knew it!” said Elizabeth, in the voice of Cassandra.

Lady Winwood sank back upon her cushions with closed eyes. Charlotte, observing her alarming rigidity shrieked: “Unnatural girl! Have you no consideration for our dearest Mama? Lizzie, hartshorn!”

The hartshorn, the vinaigrette, and some Hungary Water applied to the temples restored the afflicted Lady Winwood to life. She opened her eyes and found just strength to utter: “What did the child say?”

Charlotte, fondly clasping her mother’s frail hand, said: “Mama, do not agitate yourself, I beg of you!”

“You n-need not be agitated, M-mama,” Horatia told her penitently. “It is quite true that I’ve b-been to see Lord Rule, but—”

“Then all is at an end!” said Lady Winwood fatalistically. “We may as well prepare to enter the Debtors’ Prison. I am sure I do not mind for myself, for my Days are Numbered, but my beautiful Lizzie, my sweetest Charlotte—”

“M-mama, if only you w-would listen to me!” broke in Horatia. “I have explained everything to L-Lord Rule, and—”

“Merciful heavens!” said Elizabeth. “Not—not Edward?”

“Yes, Edward. Of course I told him about Edward. And he is n-not going to marry you, Lizzie, but he p-promised he would be Edward’s P-patron instead—”

Lady Winwood had recourse to the vinaigrette again, and desired feebly to be told what she had ever done to deserve such calamity.

“And I explained how n-nothing would induce Charlotte to m-marry him, and he did not seem to m-mind that.”

“I shall die,” said Charlotte with resolution, “of Mortification!”

“Oh, Horry dear!” sighed Elizabeth, between tears and laughter.

“And I asked him,” concluded Horatia triumphantly, “if, he would marry m-me instead. And he is g-going to!”

Her relatives were bereft of speech. Even Lady Winwood apparently considered that the situation had gone beyond the powers of her vinaigrette to mend, for she allowed it to slip from her hand to the floor while she stared in a bemused way at her youngest-born.

It was Charlotte who found her voice first. “Horatia, do you say that you had the Indelicacy, the Impropriety, the—the Forwardness, to ask Lord Rule to marry you?”

“Yes,” said Horatia staunchly. “I had to.”

“And—and—” Charlotte groped for words—“he consented to—to marry you in place of Lizzie?”

Horatia nodded.

“He cannot,” said Charlotte, “have noticed the Stammer.”

Horatia put up her chin, “I s-spoke to him about the S-stammer, and he said he l-liked it!”

Elizabeth rose up from her chair and clasped Horatia in her arms. “Oh, why should he not? Dearest, dearest, never could I permit you to sacrifice yourself for me!”

Horatia suffered the embrace. “Well, to tell you the truth, Lizzie, I would like to m-marry him. But I c-can’t help wondering whether you are quite sure you d-don’t want to?” She searched her sister’s face. “Do-do you really like Edward better?”

“Oh, my love!”

“Well, I c-can’t understand it,” said Horatia.

“It is not to be supposed,” stated Charlotte flatly, “that Lord Rule was in earnest. Depend upon it, he thinks Horry a Mere Child.”

“N-no, he does not!” said Horatia, firing up. “He w-was in earnest, and he is c-coming to tell M-mama at three this afternoon.”

“I beg that no one will expect me to face Lord Rule!” said Lady Winwood. “I am ready to sink into the ground!”

“Will he come?” demanded Charlotte. “What irremediable harm may not Horry’s impropriety have wrought? We must ask ourselves, will Lord Rule desire to ally himself with a Family one of whose members has shown herself so dead to all feelings of Modesty and Female Reserve?”

“Charlotte, you shall not say that!” said Elizabeth with unwonted stringency. “What should he think but that our dearest is but an impulsive child?”

“We must hope it,” Charlotte said heavily. “But if she has divulged your attachment to Edward Heron I fear that all is at an end. We who know and value dear Horry do not notice her blemishes, but what gentleman would engage to marry her in place of the Beauty of the Family?”

“I thought of that myself,” admitted Horatia. “He s-says he thinks he will grow used to my horrid eyebrows quite easily. And I will t-tell you something, Charlotte! He said it would be a p-pity if I became any taller.”

“How mortifying it is to reflect that Lord Rule may have been amusing himself at the expense of a Winwood!” said Charlotte.

But it seemed that Lord Rule had not been amusing himself. At three o’clock he walked up the steps of No. 20 South Street, and inquired for Lady Winwood.

In spite of her dramatic refusal to face the Earl, Lady Winwood had been induced to await him in the withdrawing-room, fortified by smelling-salts, and a new polonaise with tobine stripes which had arrived from her dressmaker’s just in time to avert a nervous collapse.

Her interview with his lordship lasted for half an hour, at the end of which time the footman was dispatched to inform Miss Horatia that her presence in the withdrawing-room was desired.

“Aha!” cried Horatia, shooting a wicked glance at Charlotte, and springing to her feet.

Elizabeth caught her hands. “Horry, it is not too late! If this arrangement is repugnant to you, for Heaven’s sake speak, and I will throw myself upon Lord Rule’s generosity!”

“Repugnant? S-stuff!” said Horatia, and danced out.

“Horry, Horry, at least let me straighten your sash!” shrieked Charlotte.

“Too late,” Elizabeth said. She clasped her hands to her breast. “If I could be assured that this is no Immolation upon the Altar of Sisterly Love!”

“If you wish to know what I think,” said Charlotte, “Horry is very well pleased with herself.”

Horatia, opening the door into the withdrawing-room, found her mother actually upon her feet, the smelling-salts lying forgotten on an ormolu table by the fire. In the middle of the room Rule was standing, watching the door, one hand, with a great square sapphire glowing on it, resting on a chair-back.

He looked very much more magnificent and unapproachable in blue velvet and gold lacing than he had seemed in his riding habit, and for a moment Horatia surveyed him rather doubtfully. Then she saw him smile and was reassured.

Lady Winwood swam towards her and embraced her. “My dearest!” she said, apparently overcome. “My lord, let my treasured child answer you with her own lips. Horatia love, Lord Rule has done you the honour to request your hand in marriage.”

“I t-told you he was going to, M-mama!” said Horatia incorrigibly.

“Horatia—I beg of you!” implored the long-suffering lady. “Your curtsy, my love!”

Horatia sank obediently into a curtsy. The Earl took her hand, as she rose, and bowed deeply over it. He said, looking down at her with a laugh in his eyes: “Madam, may I keep this little hand?”

Lady Winwood heaved a tremulous sigh, and wiped away a sympathetic tear with her handkerchief.

“P-pretty!” approved Horatia. “Indeed you m-may, sir. It is very handsome of you to give me the p-pleasure of having you p-propose for me.”

Lady Winwood looked round apprehensively for her salts, but perceiving that his lordship was laughing, changed her mind. “My baby... !” She said indulgently: “As you see, my lord, she is all unspoiled.”

She did not leave the newly-plighted pair alone, and the Earl presently took his leave with equal correctness. The front door had barely closed behind him before Lady Winwood had clasped Horatia in fond embrace. “Dearest child!” she said. “You are very, very fortunate! So personable a man! Such delicacy!”

Charlotte put her head round the door. “May we come in, Mama? Has he really offered for Horry?”

Lady Winwood dabbed at her eyes again. “He is everything that I could wish for! Such refinement! Such ton!”

Elizabeth had taken Horatia’s hand, but Charlotte said practically : “Well, for my part, I think he must be doting. And repulsive as the thought is, I suppose the Settlements... ?”

“He is all that is generous!” sighed Lady Winwood.

“Then I’m sure I wish you joy, Horry,” said Charlotte. “Though I must say that I consider you far too young and heedless to become the wife of any gentleman. And I only pray that Theresa Maulfrey will have enough proper feeling to refrain from chattering about this awkward business.”

It did not seem at first as though Mrs Maulfrey would be able to hold her tongue. Upon the announcement of the betrothal she came to South Street, just as her cousins knew she would, all agog to hear the whole story. She was palpably dissatisfied with Elizabeth’s careful tale of “a mistake’, and demanded to know the truth. Lady Winwood, rising for once to the occasion, announced that the matter had been arranged by herself and his lordship, who had met Horatia and been straightway captivated by her.

With this Mrs Maulfrey had to be content, and after condoling with Elizabeth on having lost an Earl only to get a lieutenant in exchange, and with Charlotte on being left a spinster while a chit from the schoolroom made the match of the season, she departed, leaving a sense of relief behind her, and a strong odour of violet scent.

Charlotte opined darkly that no good would come of Horatia’s scandalously contrived marriage. But Charlotte was alone in her pessimism. A radiant Mr Heron, fervently grasping both Horatia’s hands, thanked her from the heart, and wished her happiness. Mr Heron had had the honour of meeting Lord Rule at an extremely select soiree in South Street, and his lordship had roused himself to take the young man aside and talk to him of his future. Mr Heron had no hesitation in declaring the Earl to be a very good sort of a man indeed, and no further remarks concerning his reputation or his advanced years were heard to pass his lips. Elizabeth, too, who had been forced to nerve herself to meet her erstwhile suitor, found the ordeal shorn of its terrors. My lord kissed her hand, and as he released it said with his slight, not unpleasing drawl: “May I hope, Miss Winwood, that I am no longer an ogre?”

Elizabeth blushed, and hung her head. “Oh—Horry!” she sighed, a smile trembling on her lips. “Indeed, my lord, you were never that.”

“But I owe you an apology, ma’am,” he said solemnly, “for I made you “dreadfully unhappy”.”

“If we are to talk of apologies, sir—! You, who have been all kindness!” She lifted her eyes to his face, and tried to thank him for what he would do for Mr Heron.

Apparently he did not choose to be thanked; he put it aside with his lazy laugh, and somehow she could not go on. He stayed by her for a few minutes, and she had leisure to observe him. Later she told Mr Heron seriously that she thought Horry might be very happy.

“Horry is happy,” replied Mr Heron, with a chuckle.

“Ah yes, but you see, dearest, Horry is only a child. I feel—I feel anxiety, I won’t conceal from you. Lord Rule is not a child.” She puckered her brow. “Horry does such things! If he will only be gentle with her, and patient!”

“Why, love,” said Mr Heron, humouring her, “I don’t think you need to put yourself about. His lordship is all gentleness, and I don’t doubt will have patience enough.”

“All gentleness,” she repeated. “Indeed he is, and yet—do you know, Edward, I think I might be afraid of him? Sometimes, if you do but notice, he has a trick of closing his lips that gives to the whole face an air of—I must say inflexibility, quite foreign to what one knows of him. But if he will only come to love Horry!”

No one but Miss Winwood was inclined to indulge in such questionings, least of all Lady Winwood, basking in the envy of her acquaintance. Everyone was anxious to felicitate her; everyone knew what a triumph was hers. Even Mr Walpole, who was staying in Arlington Street at the time, came to pay her a morning visit, and to glean a few details. Mr Walpole’s face wore an approving smile, though he regretted that his god-daughter should be marrying a Tory. But then Mr Walpole was so very earnest a Whig, and even he seemed to think that Lady Winwood was right to disregard Rule’s political opinions. He set the tips of his fingers together, crossing one dove-silk stockinged leg over the other, and listened with his well-bred air to all Lady Winwood had to say. She had a great value for Mr Walpole, whom she had known for many years, but she was careful in what she told him. No one had a kinder heart than this thin, percipient gentleman, but he had a sharp nose for a morsel of scandal, and a satiric pen. Let him but get wind of Horatia’s escapade, and my Lady Ossory and my Lady Aylesbury would have the story by the next post.

Fortunately, the rumour of Rule’s offer for Elizabeth had not reached Twickenham, and beyond wondering that Lady Winwood should care to see Horatia married before the divine Elizabeth (who was quite his favourite), he said nothing to put an anxious mother on her guard. So Lady Winwood told him confidentially that, although nothing was yet to be declared, Elizabeth too was to leave the nest. Mr Walpole was all interest, but pursed his lips a little when he heard about Mr Edward Heron. To be sure, of good family (trust Mr Walpole to know that!), but he could have wished for someone of greater consequence for his little Lizzie. Mr Walpole did so like to see his young friends make good matches. Indeed, his satisfaction at Horatia’s betrothal made him forget a certain disastrous day at Twickenham when Horatia had shown herself quite unworthy of having the glories of his little Gothic Castle exhibited to her, and he patted her hand, and said that she must come and drink a syllabub at Strawberry quite soon. Horatia, under oath not to be farouche (“for he may be rising sixty, my love, and live secluded, but there’s no one whose good opinion counts for more’), thanked him demurely, and hoped that she would not be expected to admire and fondle his horrid little dog, Rosette, who was odiously spoiled, and yapped at one’s heels.

Mr Walpole said that she was very young to contemplate matrimony, and Lady Winwood sighed that alas, it was true: she was losing her darling before she had even been to Court.

That was an unwise remark, because it gave Mr Walpole an opportunity for recounting, as he was very fond of doing, how his father had taken him to kiss George the First’s hand when he was a child. Horatia slipped out while he was in the middle of his anecdote, leaving her Mama to assume an expression of spurious interest.

In quite another quarter, though topographically hardly a stone’s throw from South Street, the news of Rule’s betrothal created different sensations. There was a slim house in Hertford Street where a handsome widow held her court, but it was not at all the sort of establishment that Lady Winwood visited. Caroline Massey, relict of a wealthy tradesman, had achieved her position in the Polite World by dint of burying the late Sir Thomas’s connexion with the City in decent oblivion, and relying upon her own respectable birth and very considerable good looks. Sir Thomas’s fortune, though so discreditably acquired, was also useful. It enabled his widow to live in a very pretty house in the best part of town, to entertain in a lavish and agreeable fashion, and to procure the sponsorship of a Patroness who was easy-going enough to introduce her into Society. The offices of this Patroness had long ceased to be necessary to Lady Massey. In some way, best known (said various indignant ladies) to herself, she had contrived to become a Personage. One was for ever meeting her, and if a few doors remained obstinately closed against her, she had a sufficient following for this not to signify. That the following consisted largely of men was not likely to trouble her; she was not a woman who craved female companionship, though a faded and resigned lady, who was believed to be her cousin, constantly resided with her. Miss Janet’s presence was a sop thrown to the conventions. Yet, to do them justice, it was not Lady Massey’s morals that stuck in the gullets of certain aristocratic dames. Everyone had their own affaires, and if gossip whispered of intimacies between the fair Massey and Lord Rule, as long as the lady conducted her amorous passages with discretion only such rigid moralists as Lady Winwood would throw up hands of horror. It was the fatal taint of the City that would always exclude Lady Massey from the innermost circle of Fashion. She was not bon ton. It was said without rancour, even with a pitying shrug of well-bred shoulders, but it was damning. Lady Massey, aware of it, never betrayed by word or look that she was conscious of that almost indefinable bar, and not even the resigned cousin knew that to become one of the Select was almost an obsession with her.

There was only one person who guessed, and he seemed to derive a certain sardonic amusement from it. Robert, Baron Lethbridge, could usually derive amusement from the frailty of his fellows.

Upon an evening two days after the Earl of Rule’s second visit to the Winwood establishment, Lady Massey held a card-party in Hertford Street. These parties were always well attended, for one might be sure of deep play, and a charming hostess, whose cellar (thanks to the ungenteel but knowledgeable Sir Thomas) was excellently stocked.

The saloon upon the first floor was a charming apartment, and set off its mistress to advantage. She had lately purchased some very pretty pieces of gilt furniture in Paris, and had had all her old hangings pulled down, and new ones of straw-coloured silk put in their place, so that the room, which had before been rose-pink, now glowed palely yellow. She herself wore a gown of silk brocade with great panniers, and an underskirt looped with embroidered garlands. Her hair was dressed high in a pouf au sentiment, with curled feathers for which she had paid fifty louis apiece at Bertin’s, and scented roses, placed artlessly here and there in the powdered erection. This coiffure had been the object of several aspiring ladies’ envy, and had put Mrs Montague-Damer quite out of countenance. She too had acquired a French fashion, and had expected to have it much admired. But the exquisite pouf au sentiment made her own chien couchant look rather ridiculous, and quite spoiled her evening’s enjoyment.

The gathering in the saloon was a modish one; dowdy persons had no place in Lady Massey’s house, though she could welcome such freaks as the Lady Amelia Pridham, that grossly fat and free-spoken dame in the blonde satin who was even now arranging her rouleaus in front of her. There were those who wondered that the Lady Amelia should care to visit in Hertford Street, but the Lady Amelia, besides being of an extreme good nature, would go to any house where she could be sure of deep basset.

Basset was the game of the evening, and some fifteen people were seated at the big round table. It was when Lord Lethbridge held the bank that he chose to make his startling announcement. As he paid on the couch he said with a faintly malicious note in his voice: “I don’t see Rule tonight. No doubt the bridegroom-elect dances attendance in South Street.”

Opposite him, Lady Massey quickly looked up from the cards in front of her, but she did not say anything.

A Macaroni, with an enormous ladder-toupet covered in blue hair-powder, and a thin, unhealthily sallow countenance, cried out: “What’s that?”

Lord Lethbridge’s hard hazel eyes lingered for a moment on Lady Massey’s face. Then he turned slightly to look at the startled Macaroni. He said smilingly: “Do you tell me I am before you with the news, Crosby? I thought you of all people must have known.” His satin-clad arm lay on the table, the pack of cards clasped in his white hand. The light of the candles in the huge chandelier over the table caught the jewels in the lace at his throat, and made his eyes glitter queerly.

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Macaroni, half rising from his seat.

“But Rule, my dear Crosby!” said Lethbridge. “Your cousin Rule, you know.”

“What of Rule?” inquired the Lady Amelia, regretfully pushing one of her rouleaus across the table.

Lethbridge’s glance flickered to Lady Massey’s face again.

“Why, only that he is about to enter the married state,” he replied.

There was a stir of interest. Someone said “Good God, I thought he was safe to stay single! Well, upon my soul! Who’s the fortunate fair one, Lethbridge?”

“The fortunate fair one is the youngest Miss Winwood,” said Lethbridge. “A romance, you perceive. I believe she is not out of the schoolroom.”

The Macaroni, Mr Crosby Drelincourt, mechanically straightened the preposterous bow he wore in place of a cravat. “Pho, it is a tale!” he said uneasily. “Where had you it?”

Lethbridge raised his thin, rather slanting brows. “Oh, I had it from the little Maulfrey. It will be in the Gazette by tomorrow.”

“Well, it’s very interesting,” said a portly gentleman in claret velvet, “but the game, Lethbridge, the game!”

“The game,” bowed his lordship, and sent a glance round at the cards on the table.

Lady Massey, who had won the couch, suddenly put out her hand and nicked the corner of the Queen that lay before her. “Paroli!” she said in a quick, unsteady voice.

Lethbridge turned up two cards, and sent her a mocking look. “Ace wins, Queen loses,” he said. “Your luck is quite out, my lady.”

She gave a little laugh. “I assure you I don’t regard it. Lose tonight, win tomorrow. It goes up and down.”

The game proceeded. It was not until later when the company stood about in little chatting groups, partaking of very excellent refreshments, that Rule’s betrothal was remembered. It was Lady Amelia, rolling up to Lethbridge, with a glass of hot negus in one hand and a sweet biscuit in the other, who said in her downright way: “You’re a dog, Lethbridge. What possessed you to hop out with that, man?”

“Why not?” said his lordship coolly. “I thought you would all be interested.”

Lady Amelia finished her negus, and looked across the room towards her hostess. “Diverting,” she commented. “Did she think to get Rule?”

Lethbridge shrugged. “Why do you ask me? I’m not in the lady’s confidence.”

“H’m! You’ve a trick of knowing things, Lethbridge. Silly creature. Rule’s not such a fool.” Her cynical eye wandered in search of Mr Drelincourt, and presently found him, standing apart, and pulling at his underlip. She chuckled. “Took it badly, eh?”

Lord Lethbridge followed the direction of her gaze. “Confess, I’ve afforded you some amusement, my lady.”

“Lord, you’re like a gnat, my dear man.” She became aware of little Mr Paget inquisitively at her elbow, and dug at his ribs with her fan. “What do you give for Crosby’s chances now?”

Mr Paget tittered. “Or our fair hostess’s, ma’am!”

She gave a shrug of her large white shoulders. “Oh, if you want to pry into the silly woman’s affairs—!” she said, and moved away.

Mr Paget transferred his attention to Lord Lethbridge.

“’Pon my soul, my lord, I’ll swear she went white under the rouge!” Lethbridge took snuff. “Cruel of you, my lord, ’pon my soul it was!”

“Do you think so?” said his lordship with almost dulcet sweetness.

“Oh, positively, sir, positively! Not a doubt she had hopes of Rule. But it would never do, you know. I believe his lordship to be excessively proud.”

“Excessively,” said Lethbridge, with so much dryness in his voice that Mr Paget had an uncomfortable feeling that he had said something inopportune.

He was so obsessed by this notion that he presently confided the interchange to Sir Marmaduke Hoban, who gave a snort of laughter and said: “Damned inopportune!” and walked off to replenish his glass.

Mr Crosby Drelincourt, cousin and heir-presumptive to my Lord of Rule, seemed disinclined to discuss the news. He left the party early, and went home to his lodging in Jermyn Street, a prey to the gloomiest forebodings.

He passed an indifferent night, and awoke finally at an uncommonly early hour, and demanded the London Gazette. His valet brought it with the cup of chocolate with which it was Mr Drelincourt’s habit to regale himself on first waking. Mr Drelincourt seized the journal and spread it open with agitated fingers. The announcement glared at him in incontrovertible print.

Mr Drelincourt looked at it in a kind of daze, his nightcap over one eye.

“Your chocolate, sir,” said his valet disinterestedly.

Mr Drelincourt was roused out of his momentary stupor. “Take the damned stuff away!” he shouted, and flung the Gazette down. “I am getting up!”

“Yes, sir. Will you wear the blue morning habit?”

Mr Drelincourt swore at him.

The valet, accustomed to Mr Drelincourt’s temper, remained unmoved, but found an opportunity while his master was pulling on his stockings to peep into the Gazette. What he saw brought a faint, sour smile to his lips. He went away to prepare a razor with which to shave Mr Drelincourt.

The news had shocked Mr Drelincourt deeply, but habit was strong, and by the time he had been shaved he had recovered sufficient mastery over himself to take an interest in the all-important question of his dress. The result of the care he bestowed upon his person was certainly startling. When he was at last ready to sally forth into the street he wore a blue coat with long tails and enormous silver buttons, over a very short waistcoat, and a pair of striped breeches clipped at the knee with rosettes. A bow served him for cravat, his stockings were of silk, his shoes had silver buckles and heels so high that he was obliged to mince along; his wig was brushed up en herisson to a point in the front, curled in pigeons’ wings over the ears, and brought down at the back into a queue confined in a black silk bag. A little round hat surmounted this structure, and to complete his toilet he had a number of fobs and seals, and carried a long, clouded cane embellished with tassels.

Although the morning was a fine one Mr Drelincourt hailed a chair, and gave the address of his cousin’s house in Grosvenor Square. He entered the sedan carefully, bending his head to avoid brushing his toupet against the roof; the men picked up the poles, and set off northwards with their exquisite burden.

Upon his arrival in Grosvenor Square Mr Drelincourt paid off the chairmen and tripped up the steps to the great door of Rule’s house. He was admitted by the porter, who looked as though he would have liked to have shut the door in the visitor’s painted face. Mr Drelincourt was no favourite with Rule’s household, but being in some sort a privileged person he came and went very much as he pleased. The porter told him that my lord was still at breakfast, but Mr Drelincourt waved this piece of information aside with an airy gesture of one lily-white hand. The porter handed him over to a footman, and reflected with satisfaction that that was a nose put well out of joint.

Mr Drelincourt rarely waited upon his cousin without letting his gaze rest appreciatively on the fine proportions of his rooms, and the elegance of their appointments. He had come to regard Rule’s possessions in some sort as his own, and he could never enter his house without thinking of the day when it would belong to him. Today, however, he was easily able to refrain from the indulgence of his dream, and he followed the footman to a small breakfast-room at the back of the house with nothing in his head but a sense of deep injury.

My lord, in a dressing-gown of brocaded silk, was seated at the table with a tankard and a sirloin before him. His secretary was also present, apparently attempting to cope with a number of invitations for his lordship, for as Mr Drelincourt strutted in he said despairingly: “But, sir, you must surely remember that you are promised to her Grace of Bedford tonight!”

“I wish,” said Rule plaintively, “that you would rid yourself of that notion, my dear Arnold. I cannot imagine where you had it. I never remember anything disagreeable. Good-morning, Crosby.” He put up his glass the better to observe the letters in Mr Gisborne’s hand. “The one on the pink paper, Arnold. I have a great predilection for the one writ on pink paper. What is it?”

“A card-party at Mrs Wallchester’s, sir,” said Mr Gisborne in a voice of disapproval.

“My instinct is never at fault,” said his lordship. “The pink one it shall be. Crosby, really there is no need for you to stand. Have you come to breakfast? Oh, don’t go, Arnold, don’t go.”

“If you please, Rule, I wish to be private with you,” said Mr Drelincourt, who had favoured the secretary with the smallest of bows.

“Don’t be shy, Crosby,” said his lordship kindly. “If it’s money Arnold is bound to know all about it.”

“It is not,” said Mr Drelincourt, much annoyed.

“Permit me, sir,” said Mr Gisborne, moving to the door.

Mr Drelincourt put down his hat and his cane, and drew out a chair from the table. “Not breakfast, no!” he said a little peevishly.

The Earl surveyed him patiently. “Well, what is it now, Crosby?” he inquired.

“I came to,” said Mr Drelincourt, “I came to speak to you about this—this betrothal.”

“There’s nothing private about that,” observed Rule, addressing himself to the cold roast beef.

“No, indeed!” said Crosby, with a hint of indignation in his voice. “I suppose it is true?”

“Oh, quite true,” said his lordship. “You may safely felicitate me, my dear Crosby.”

“As to that—why, certainly! Certainly, I wish you very happy,” said Crosby, put out. “But you never spoke a word of it to me. It takes me quite by surprise. I must think it extremely odd, cousin, considering the singular nature of our relationship.”

“The—?” My lord seemed puzzled.

“Come, Rule, come! As your heir I might be supposed to have some claim to be apprised of your intentions.”

“Accept my apologies,” said his lordship. “Are you sure you won’t have some breakfast, Crosby? You do not look at all the thing, my dear fellow. In fact, I should almost feel inclined to recommend another hair powder than this blue you affect. A charming tint, Crosby: you must not think I don’t admire it, but its reflected pallor upon your countenance—”

“If I seem pale, cousin, you should rather blame the extraordinary announcement in today’s Gazette. It has given me a shock; I shan’t deny it has given me a shock.”

“But, Crosby,” said his lordship plaintively, “were you really sure that you would outlive me?”

“In the course of nature I might expect to,” replied Mr Drelincourt, too much absorbed in his disappointment to consider his words. “I can give you ten years, you must remember.”

Rule shook his head. “I don’t think you should build on it,” he said. “I come of distressingly healthy stock, you know.”

“Very true,” agreed Mr Drelincourt. “It is a happiness to all your relatives.”

“I see it is,” said his lordship gravely.

“Pray don’t mistake me, Marcus!” besought his cousin. “You must not suppose that your demise could occasion in me anything but a sense of the deepest bereavement, but you’ll allow a man must look to the future.”

“Such a remote future!” said his lordship. “It makes me feel positively melancholy, my dear Crosby.”

“We must all hope it may be remote,” said Crosby, “but you cannot fail to have observed how uncertain is human life. Only to think of young Frittenham, cut off in the very flower of his youth by the overturning of his curricle! Broke his neck, you know, and all for a wager.”

The Earl laid down his knife and fork, and regarded his relative with some amusement. “Only to think of it!” he repeated. “I confess, Crosby, what you say will add—er—piquancy to my next race. I begin to see that your succession to my shoes—by the way, cousin, you are such a judge of these matters, do, I beg of you, tell me how you like them?” He stretched one leg for Mr Drelincourt to look at.

Mr Drelincourt said unerringly: “A la d’Artois, from Joubert’s. I don’t favour them myself, but they are very well—very well indeed.”

“It’s a pity you don’t,” said his lordship, “for I perceive that you may be called upon to step into them at any time.”

“Oh, hardly that, Rule! Hardly that!” protested Mr Drelincourt handsomely.

“But consider how uncertain is human life, Crosby! You yourself said it a moment back. I might at any moment be thrown from a curricle.”

“I am sure I did not in the least mean—”

“Or,” continued Rule pensively, “fall a victim to one of the cut-throat thieves with which I am told the town abounds.”

“Certainly,” said Mr Drelincourt a little stiffly. “But I don’t anticipate—”

“Highwaymen too,” mused his lordship. “Think of poor Layton, with a bullet in his shoulder on Hounslow Heath not a month ago. It might have been me, Crosby. It may still be me.”

Mr Drelincourt rose in a huff. “I see you are determined to make a jest of it. Good God, I don’t desire your death! I should be excessively sorry to hear of it. But this sudden resolve to marry when everyone had quite given up all idea of it, takes me aback, upon my soul it does! And quite a young lady, I apprehend.”

“My dear Crosby, why not say a very young lady? I feel sure you know her age.”

Mr Drelincourt sniffed. “I scarcely credited it, cousin, I confess. A schoolroom miss, and you well above thirty! I wish you may not live to regret it.”

“Are you sure,” said his lordship, “that you won’t have some of this excellent beef?”

An artistic shudder ran through his cousin. “I never—positively never—eat flesh at this hour of the morning!” said Mr Drelincourt emphatically. “It is of all things the most repugnant to me. Of course you must know how people will laugh at this odd marriage. Seventeen and thirty-five! Upon my honour, I should not care to appear so ridiculous!” He gave an angry titter, and added venomously: “To be sure, no one need wonder at the young lady’s part in it! We all know how it is with the Winwoods. She does very well for herself, very well indeed!”

The Earl leaned back in his chair, one hand in his breeches pocket, the other quite idly playing with his quizzing-glass. “Crosby,” he said gently, “if ever you repeat that remark I am afraid—I am very much afraid—that you will quite certainly predecease me.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Mr Drelincourt looked down at his cousin and saw that under the heavy lids those bored eyes had entirely lost their smile. They held a very unpleasant glint. Mr Drelincourt cleared his throat, and said, his voice jumping a little: “My dear Marcus—! I assure you I meant nothing in the world! How you do take one up!”

“You must forgive me,” said his lordship, still with that alarming grimness about his mouth.

“Oh, certainly! I don’t give it a thought,” said Mr Drelincourt. “Consider it forgotten, cousin, and as for the cause, you have me wrong, quite wrong, you know.”

The Earl continued to regard him for a moment; then the grimness left his face, and he suddenly laughed.

Mr Drelincourt picked up his hat and cane, and was about to take his leave when the door opened briskly, and a lady came in. She was of middle height, dressed in a gown of apple-green cambric with white stripes, in the style known as vive bergere, and had a very becoming straw hat with ribands perched upon her head. A scarf caught over one arm, and a sunshade with a long handle completed her toilet, and in her hand she carried, as Mr Drelincourt saw at a glance, a copy of the London Gazette.

She was an extremely handsome woman, with most speaking eyes, at once needle-sharp, and warmly smiling, and she bore a striking resemblance to the Earl.

On the threshold she checked, her quick gaze taking in Mr Drelincourt. “Oh—Crosby!” she said, with unveiled dissatisfaction.

Rule got up, and took her hand. “My dear Louisa, have you also come to breakfast?” he inquired.

She kissed him in a sisterly fashion, and replied with energy: “I breakfasted two hours ago, but you may give me some coffee. I see you are just going, Crosby. Pray don’t let me keep you. Dear me, why will you wear those very odd clothes, my good creature? And that absurd wig don’t become you, take my word for it!”

Mr Drelincourt, feeling unable to cope adequately with his cousin, merely bowed, and wished her good morning. No sooner had he minced out of the room than Lady Louisa Quain flung down her copy of the Gazette before Rule. “No need to ask why that odious little toad came,” she remarked. “But, my dear Marcus, it is too provoking! There is the most nonsensical mistake made! Have you seen it?”

Rule began to pour coffee into his own unused cup. “Dear Louisa, do you realize that it is not yet eleven o’clock, and I have already had Crosby with me? What time can I have had to read the Gazette?”

She took the cup from him, observing that she could not conceive how he should care to go on drinking ale with his breakfast. “You will have to put in a second advertisement,” she informed him. “I can’t imagine how they came to make such a stupid mistake. My dear they have confused the names of the sisters! Here it is! You may read for yourself: “The Honourable Horatia Winwood, youngest daughter of—” Really, if it were not so vexing it would be diverting! But how in the world came they to put “Horatia” for “Elizabeth”?”

“You see,” said Rule apologetically, “Arnold sent the ad-vertisement to the Gazette.”

“Well, I never would have believed Mr Gisborne to be so big a fool!” declared her ladyship.

“But perhaps I ought to explain, my dear Louisa, that he had my authority,” said Rule still more apologetically.

Lady Louisa, who had been studying the advertisement with a mixture of disgust and amusement, let the Gazette drop, and twisted round in her chair to stare up at her brother in astonishment. “Lord, Rule, what can you possibly mean?” she demanded. “You’re not going to marry Horatia Winwood!”

“But I am,” said his lordship calmly.

“Rule, have you gone mad? You told me positively you had offered for Elizabeth!”

“My shocking memory for names!” mourned his lordship.

Lady Louisa brought her open hand down on the table. “Nonsense!” she said. “Your memory’s as good as mine!”

“My dear, I should not like to think that,” said the Earl. “Your memory is sometimes too good.”

“Oh!” said the lady critically surveying him. “Well, you had best make a clean breast of it. Do you really mean to marry that child?”

“Well, she certainly means to marry me,” said his lordship.

“What?” gasped Lady Louisa.

“You see,” explained the Earl, resuming his seat, “though it ought to be Charlotte, she has no mind to make such a sacrifice, even for Elizabeth’s sake.”

“Either you are out of your senses, or I am!” declared Lady Louisa with resignation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and how you can mean to marry Horatia, who must be still in the schoolroom, for I’m sure I have never clapped eyes on her—in place of that divinely beautiful Elizabeth—”

“Ah, but I am going to grow used to the eyebrows,” interrupted Rule. “And she has the Nose.”

“Rule,” said her ladyship with dangerous quiet, “do not goad me too far! Where have you seen this child?”

He regarded her with a smile hovering round his mouth. “If I told you, Louisa, you would probably refuse to believe me.”

She cast up her eyes. “When did you have this notion of marrying her?” she asked.

“Oh, I didn’t,” replied the Earl. “It was not my notion at all.”

“Whose, then?”

“Horatia’s, my dear. I thought I had explained.”

“Do you tell me, Marcus, the girl asked you to marry her?” said Lady Louisa sarcastically.

“Instead of Elizabeth,” nodded his lordship. “Elizabeth, you see, is going to marry Mr Heron.”

“Who in the world is Mr Heron?” cried Lady Louisa. “I declare, I never heard such a farrago! Confess, you are trying to take me in.”

“Not at all, Louisa. You don’t understand the situation at all. One of them must marry me.”

“That I can believe,” she said dryly. “But this nonsense about Horatia? What is the truth of it?”

“Only that Horatia offered herself to me in her sister’s place. And that—but I need not tell you—is quite for your ears alone.”

Lady Louisa was not in the habit of giving way to amazement, and she did not now indulge in fruitless ejaculations. “Marcus, is the girl a minx?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. “She is not, Louisa. I am not at all sure that she is not a heroine.”

“Don’t she wish to marry you?”

The Earl’s eyes gleamed. “Well, I am rather old, you know, though no one would think it to look at me. But she assures me she would quite like to marry me. If my memory serves me, she prophesied that we should deal famously together.”

Lady Louisa, watching him, said abruptly: “Rule, is this a love-match?”

His brows rose; he looked faintly amused. “My dear Louisa! At my age?”

“Then marry the Beauty,” she said. “That one would understand better.”

“You are mistaken, my dear. Horatia understands perfectly. She engages not to interfere with me.”

“At seventeen! It’s folly, Marcus.” She got up, drawing her scarf around her. “I’ll see her for myself.”

“Do,” he said cordially. “I think—but I may be prejudiced—you will find her adorable.”

“If you find her so,” she said, her eyes softening, “I shall love her—even though she has a squint!”

“Not a squint,” said his lordship. “A stammer.”