The Corinthian

Chapter 10

The effect of this confession upon Pen was not quite what Miss Daubenay had expected. She gasped, choked, and went off into a peal of laughter. Affronted, Miss Daubenay said: “I don’t see what there is to laugh at!”

“No, I dare say you don’t,” said Pen, mopping her eyes. “But it is excessively amusing for all that. What made you say anything so silly?”

“I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And as for its being silly, you may think me very ill-favoured, but I have already had several suitors!”

“I think you are very pretty, but I am not going to be a suitor,” said Pen firmly.

“I don’t want you to be! For one thing, I find you quite odiously rude, and for another you are much too young, which is why I chose you, because I thought I should be quite safe in so doing.”

“Well you are, but I never heard of anything so foolish in my life! Pray, what was the use of telling your father such fibs?”

“I told you,” said Lydia crossly. “I scarcely knew what I was saying, and I thought—But everything has gone awry!”

Pen looked at her with misgiving. “What do you mean?”

“Papa is going to wait on your cousin this morning.”

“What!” exclaimed Pen.

Lydia nodded. “Yes, and he is not angry at all. He is pleased!”

“Pleased? How can he be pleased at your holding clandestine meetings with a strange man?”

“To be sure, he did say that that was very wrong of me. But he asked me your name. Of course I don’t know it, but your cousin told me his name was Wyndham, so I said yours was too.”

“But it isn’t!”

“Well, how was I to know that?” demanded Lydia, aggrieved. “I had to say something!”

“You are the most unprincipled girl in the world! Besides, why should he be pleased just because you said my name was Wyndham?”

“Apparently,” said Lydia gloomily, “the Wyndhams are all fabulously wealthy.”

“You must tell him without any loss of time I am not a Wyndham, and that I haven’t any money at all!”

“How can I tell him anything of the kind? I think you are being most unreasonable! Do but consider! If I said now that I had been mistaken in your name he would suppose you to have been trifling with me!”

“But you cannot expect me to pretend to be in love with you!” Pen said, aghast.

Lydia sniffed. “Nothing could be more repulsive to me than such a notion. I am already sorry that I mentioned you to Papa. Only I did, and now I don’t know what to do. He would be so angry if he knew that I had made it all up!”

“Well, I am very sorry, but it seems to me quite your own fault, and I wash my hands of it,” said Pen.

She glanced at Miss Daubenay’s flower-like countenance, and made a discovery. Miss Daubenay’s soft chin had acquired a look of obstinacy; the fawn-like eyes stared back at her with a mixture of appeal and determination. “You can’t wash your hands of it. I told you that Papa was going to seek an interview with your cousin to-day.”

“You must stop him.”

“I can’t. You don’t know Papa!”

“No, and I don’t want to know him,” Pen pointed out.

“If I told him it had all been lies, I do not know what he might not do. I won’t do it! I don’t care what you may say: I won’t!”

“Well, I shall deny every word of your story.”

“Then,” said Lydia, not without triumph, “Papa will do something dreadful to you, because he will think it is you who are telling lies!”

“It seems to me that unless he is a great fool he must know you well enough by now to guess that it is you who have told lies!” said Pen, with asperity.

“It’s no use being disagreeable and rude,” said Lydia. “Papa thinks you followed me to Queen Charlton.”

“You mean you told him so,” said Pen bitterly.

“Yes, I did. At least, he asked me, and I said yes before I had had time to think.”

“Really, you are the most brainless creature! Do you never think?” said Pen, quite exasperated. “Just look what a coil you’ve created! Either your Papa is coming to ask me what my intentions are, or—which I think a great deal more likely—to complain to Richard about my conduct! Oh dear, whatever will Richard say to this fresh disturbance?”

It was plain that all this meant nothing to Miss Daubenay. For form’s sake, she repeated that she was very sorry, but added: “I hoped you would be able to help me. But you are a boy! You don’t understand what it means to be persecuted as I am!”

This remark could not but strike a chord of sympathy. “As a matter of fact, I do know,” said Pen. “Only, if helping you means offering for your hand, I won’t do it. The more I think of it, the more ridiculous it seems to me that you should have dragged me into it. How could such an absurd tale possibly be of use?”

Lydia sighed. “One does not think of those things in the heat of the moment. Besides, I didn’t really mean to drag you in. It—it just happened.”

“I don’t see how it could have happened if you didn’t mean it.”

“One thing led to another,” Lydia explained vaguely. “Almost before I knew it, the whole story had—had grown up. Of course I don’t wish you to offer for my hand, but I do think you might pretend you want to, so that Papa shan’t suspect me of telling lies.”

“No!” said Pen.

“I think you are very unkind,” whimpered Lydia. “I shall be sent back to Bath, and Great-Aunt Augusta will spy on me, and I shall never see Piers again!”

“Who?” Pen’s head was jerked round. “Who will you never see again?”

“Oh, please do not ask me! I did not mean to mention his name!”

“Are you—” Pen stopped, rather white of face, and started again: “Are you betrothed to Piers Luttrell?”

“You know him!” Miss Daubenay clasped ecstatic hands.

“Yes,” said Pen, feeling as though the pit of her stomach had suddenly vanished. “Yes, I know him.”

“Then you will help me!”

Miss Creed’s clear blue eyes met Miss Daubenay’s swimming brown ones. Miss Creed drew a long breath. “Is—is Piers indeed in love with you?” she asked incredulously.

Miss Daubenay bridled. “You need not sound so surprised! We have been plighted for a whole year! Why do you look so oddly?”

“I beg your pardon,” apologized Pen. “But how he must have changed! It is very awkward!”

“Why?” asked Lydia, staring.

“Well, it—it—you wouldn’t understand. Has he been meeting you in woods for a whole year?”

“No, because Papa sent me to Bath, and Sir Jasper forbade him to see me any more, and even Lady Luttrell said we were too young. But we love each other!”

“It seems extraordinary,” said Pen, shaking her head. “You know, I find it very hard to believe!”

“You are the horridest boy! It is perfectly true, and if you know Piers you may ask him for yourself! I wish I had never clapped eyes on you!”

“So do I,” replied Pen frankly.

Miss Daubenay burst into tears. Pen surveyed her with interest, and asked presently in the voice of one probing mysteries: “Do you always cry as much as this? Do you—do you cry at Piers?”

“I don’t cry at people!” sobbed Miss Daubenay. “And if Piers knew how horrid you have been to me he would very likely knock you down!”

Pen gave a hiccup of laughter. This incensed Lydia so much that she stopped crying, and dramatically commanded Pen to leave the orchard immediately. However, when she discovered that Pen was only too ready to take her at her word, she ran after her, and clasped her by the arm. “No, no, you cannot go until we have decided what is to be done. You won’t—oh, you can’t be cruel enough to deny my story to Papa!”

Pen considered this. “Well, provided you won’t expect me to offer for you—”

“No, no, I promise I won’t!”

Pen frowned. “Yes, but it’s of no use. There is only one thing for it: you will have to run away.”

“But—”

“Now, don’t begin to talk about the scandal, and spoiling your dress!” begged Pen. “For one thing, it is odiously missish, and for another Piers will never be able to bear it.”

“Piers,” said Miss Daubenay, with swelling bosom, “thinks me Perfect!”

“I haven’t seen Piers for a long time, but he can’t have grown up as stupid as that!” Pen pointed out.

“Yes, he—oh, I hate you, I hate you!” cried Lydia, stamping her foot. “Besides, how can I run away?”

“Oh, Piers will have to arrange it! If Richard doesn’t object, I daresay I may help him,” Pen assured her. “You will have to escape at dead of night, of course, which puts me in mind of a very important thing: you will need a rope-ladder.”

“I haven’t a rope-ladder,” objected Lydia.

“Well, Piers must make one for you. If he throws it up to your window, you could attach it securely, could you not, and climb down it?”

“I would rather escape by the door,” said Lydia, gazing helplessly up at her.

“Oh, very well, but it seems rather tame! However, it is quite your own affair. Piers will be waiting for you with a post-chaise-and-four. You will leap up into it, and the horses will spring forward, and you will fly for the Border! I can see it all!” declared Pen, her eyes sparkling.

Lydia seemed to catch a little of her enthusiasm. “To be sure, it does sound romantic,” she admitted. “Only it is a great way to the Border, and everyone would be so cross with us!”

“Once you were married that wouldn’t signify.”

“No. No, it wouldn’t, would it? But I don’t think Piers has any money.”

“Oh!” Pen’s face fell. “That certainly makes it rather awkward. But I daresay we shall contrive something.”

Lydia said: “Well, if you don’t mind, I would prefer not to go to Gretna, because although it would be romantic I can’t help thinking it would be very uncomfortable. Besides, I couldn’t have any attendants, or a wedding-dress, or a lace veil, or anything.”

“Don’t chatter!” said Pen. “I am thinking.”

Lydia was obediently silent.

“We must soften your father’s heart!” declared Pen at length.

Lydia looked doubtful. “Yes, I should like that of all things, but how?”

“Why, by making him grateful to Piers, of course!”

“But why should he be grateful to Piers? He says Piers is a young cub.”

“Piers,” said Pen, “must rescue you from deadly peril.”

“Oh no, please!” faltered Lydia, shrinking. “I should be frightened! And just think how dreadful it would be if he didn’t rescue me!”

“What a little goose you are!” said Pen scornfully. “There won’t be any real danger!”

“But if there is no danger, how can Piers—”

“Piers shall rescue you from me!” said Pen.

Lydia blinked at her. “I don’t understand. How can Piers—”

“Do stop saying “How can Piers”!” Pen begged. “We must make your father believe that I am a penniless young man without any prospects at all, and then we will run away together!”

“But I don’t want to run away with you!”

“No, stupid, and I don’t want to run away with you! It will just be a Plot. Piers must ride after us, and catch us, and restore you to your Papa. And he will be so pleased that he will let you marry Piers after all! Because Piers has very good prospects, you know.”

“Yes, but you are forgetting Sir Jasper,” argued Lydia.

“We can’t possibly be plagued by Sir Jasper,” said Pen impatiently. “Besides he is away. Now, don’t make any more objections! I must go back to the George, and warn Richard. And I will consult with Piers as well, and I daresay we shall have it all arranged in a trice. I will meet you in the spinney this evening, to tell you what you must do.”

“Oh no, no, no!” shuddered Lydia. “Not the spinney! I shall never set foot there again!”

“Well, here, then, since you are so squeamish. By the way, did you tell your Papa the whole? I mean, how you saw Captain Trimble kill the stammering-man?”

“Yes, of course I did, and he says I must tell it to Mr Philips! It is so dreadful for me! To think that my troubles had put it out of my head!”

“What a tiresome girl you are!” exclaimed Pen. “You should not have said a word about it! Ten to one, we shall get into a tangle now, because Richard has already told Mr Philips his story, and I have told him mine, and now you are bound to say something quite different. Did you mention Richard to your Papa?”

“No,” confessed Lydia, hanging her head. “I just said that I ran away.”

“Oh well, in that case perhaps there will be no harm done!” said Pen optimistically. “I am going now. I will meet you here again after dinner.”

“But what if they watch me, and I cannot slip away?” cried Lydia, trying to detain her.

Pen had climbed on to the wall, and now prepared to jump down into the road. “You must think of something,” she said sternly, and vanished from Miss Daubenay’s sight.

When Pen reached the George Sir Richard had not only finished his breakfast, but was on the point of sallying forth in search of his errant charge. She came into the parlour, flushed and rather breathless, and said impetuously: “Oh, Richard, such an adventure! I have such a deal to tell you! All our plans must be changed!”

“This is very sudden!” said Sir Richard. “May I ask where you have been?”

“Yes, of course,” said Pen, seating herself at the table, and spreading butter lavishly on a slice of bread. “I have been with that stupid girl. You would not believe that anyone could be so silly, sir!”

“I expect I should. What has she been doing, and why did you go to see her?”

“Well, it’s a long story, and most confused!”

“In that case,” said Sir Richard, “perhaps I shall unravel it more easily if you do not tell it to me with your mouth full.”

Her eyes lit with laughter. She swallowed the bread-and-butter, and said: “Oh, I’m sorry! I am so hungry, you see.”

“Have an apple,” he suggested.

She twinkled responsively, “No, thank you, I will have some of that ham. Dear sir, what in the world do you suppose that wretched girl did?”

“I have no idea,” said Sir Richard, carving several slices of the ham.

“Why, she told her Papa that she had gone into the spinney last night to meet me!”

Sir Richard laid down the knife and fork. “Good God, why?”

“Oh, for such an idiotic reason that it is not worth recounting! But the thing is, sir, that her Papa is coming to see you about it this morning. She hoped, you see, that if she said she had been in the habit of meeting me clandestinely in Bath—”

“In Bath?” interrupted Sir Richard in a faint voice.

“Yes, she said we had been meeting for ever in Bath, on account of her Great-Aunt Augusta, and not wishing to be sent there again. I quite understand that, but—”

“Then your understanding is very much better than mine,” said Sir Richard. “So far I have not been privileged to understand one word of this story. What has her Great-Aunt Augusta to do with it?”

“Oh, they sent Lydia to stay with her, you see, and she did not like it! She said it was all backgammon and spying. I could not but feel for her over that, for I know exactly what she means.”

“I am glad,” said Sir Richard, with emphasis.

“The thing is, that she thought if she told her Papa that she had met me clandestinely in Bath, he would not send her there again.”

“This sounds to me remarkably like mania in an acute form.”

“Yes, so it did to me. But there is worse to come. She says that instead of being angry, her Papa is inclined to be pleased!”

“The madness seems to be inherited.”

“That is what I thought, but it appears that Lydia told her Papa that my name was Wyndham, and now he thinks that perhaps she is on the brink of making a Good Match!”

“Good God!”

“I knew you would be surprised. And there is another circumstance too, which turns everything topsy-turvy.” She glanced up fleetingly from her plate, and said with a little difficulty: “I discovered something which—which quite took me aback. She told me whom she went to meet in the wood last night.”

“I see,” said Sir Richard.

She flushed. “Did you—did you know, sir?”

“I guessed, Pen.”

She nodded. “It was stupid of me not to suspect. To tell you the truth, I thought—However, it doesn’t signify. I expect you did not like to tell me.”

“Do you mind very much?” he asked abruptly.

“Well, I—it—You see, I had it fixed in my mind that Piers—and I—So I daresay it will take me just a little while to grow accustomed to it, besides having all my plans overset. But never mind that! We have now to consider what is to be done to help Piers and Lydia.”

“We?” interpolated Sir Richard.

“Yes, because I quite depend on you to persuade Lydia’s Papa that I am not an eligible suitor. That is most important!”

“Do you mean to tell me that this insane person is coming here to obtain my consent to your marriage with his daughter?”

“I think he is coming to discover how much money I have, and whether my intentions are honourable,” said Pen, pouring herself out a cup of coffee. “But I daresay Lydia mistook the whole matter, for she is amazingly stupid, you know, and perhaps he is coming to complain to you about my shocking conduct in meeting Lydia in secret.”

“I foresee a pleasing morning,” said Sir Richard dryly.

“Well, I must say I think it will be very amusing,” Pea admitted. “Because—why, what is the matter, sir?”

Sir Richard had covered his eyes with one hand. “You think it will be very amusing! Good God!”

“Oh, now you are laughing at me again!”

“Laughing! I am recalling my comfortable home, my ordered life, my hitherto stainless reputation, and wondering what I can ever have done to deserve being pitchforked into this shameless imbroglio! Apparently, I am to go down to history as one who not only possessed a cousin who was a monster of precocious depravity, but who actually aided and abetted him in attempting to seduce a respectable young female.”

“No, no!” said Pen earnestly. “Nothing of the kind, I assure you! I have it all arranged in the best possible way, and your part will be everything of the most proper!”

“Oh, well, in that case—!” said Sir Richard, lowering his hand.

“Now I know you are laughing at me! I am going to be the only son of a widow.”

“The unfortunate woman has all my sympathy.”

“Yes, because I am very wild, and she can do nothing with me. That is why you are here, of course. I cannot but see that I don’t look quite old enough to be an eligible suitor. Do you think I do, sir?”

“No, I don’t. In fact, I should not be surprised if Lydia’s parent were to arrive with a birch-rod.”

“Good gracious, how dreadful! I never thought of that! Well, I shall depend upon you.”

“You may confidently depend upon me to tell Major Daubenay that his daughter’s story is a farrago of lies.”

Pen shook her head. “No, we can’t do that. I said just the same myself, but you must see how difficult it would be to persuade Major Daubenay that we are speaking the truth. Consider, sir! She told him that I had followed her here, and I must admit it looks very black, because I was in the spinney last night, and you know we cannot possibly explain the real story. No, we must make the best of it. Besides, I quite feel that we ought to help Piers, if he does indeed wish to marry such a foolish creature.”

“I have not the slightest desire to help Piers, who seems to me to be behaving in a most reprehensible fashion.”

“Oh no, indeed he cannot help it! I see that I had better tell you their whole story.”

Without giving Sir Richard time to protest, she launched into a rapid and colourful account of the young lovers’ tribulations. The account, being freely embellished with her own comments, was considerably involved, and Sir Richard several times interrupted it to crave enlightenment on some obscure point. At the end of it, he remarked without any noticeable display of enthusiasm: “A most affecting history. For myself, I find the theme of Montague and Capulet hopelessly outmoded, however.”

“Well, I have made up my mind to it that there is only one thing for them to do. They must elope.”

Sir Richard, who had been playing with his quizzing-glass, let it fall, and spoke with startling severity. “Enough of this! Now, understand me, brat, I will engage to fob off the irate father, but there it must end! This extremely tedious pair of lovers may elope to-morrow for anything I care, but I will have no hand in it, and I will not permit you to have a hand in it either. Do you see?”

Pen looked speculatively at him. There was no smile visible in his eyes, which indeed looked much sterner than she had ever believed they could. Plainly, he would not lend any support to her scheme of eloping with Miss Daubenay herself. It would be better, decided Pen, to tell him nothing about this. But she was not one to let a challenge rest unanswered, and she replied with spirit: “You may do as you choose, but you have no right to tell me what I must or must not do! It is not in the least your affair.”

“It is going to be very much my affair,” replied Sir Richard.

“I don’t understand what you can possibly mean by saying anything so silly!”

“I daresay you don’t, but you will.”

“Well, we won’t dispute about that,” said Pen pacifically.

He laughed suddenly. “Indeed, I hope we shan’t!”

“And you won’t tell Major Daubenay that Lydia’s story was false?”

“What do you want me to tell him?” he asked, succumbing to the coaxing note in her voice, and the pleading look in her candid eyes.

“Why, that I have been with my tutor in Bath, but that I was so troublesome that my Mama—”

“The widow?”

“Yes, and now you will understand why she is a widow!”

“If you are supposed to favour your mythical father, I do understand. He perished on the gallows.”

“That is what Jimmy Yarde calls the Nubbing Cheat.”

“I daresay it is, but I beg you won’t.”

“Oh, very well! Where was I?”

“With your tutor.”

“To be sure. Well, I was so troublesome that my Mama sent you to bring me home. I expect you are a trustee, or something of that nature. And you may say all the horridest things about me to Major Daubenay that you like. In fact, you had better tell him that I am very bad, besides being quite a pauper.”

“Have no fear! I will draw such a picture of you as must make him thankful that his daughter has escaped becoming betrothed to such a monster.”

“Yes, do!” said Pen cordially “And then I must see Piers.”

“And then?” asked Sir Richard.

She sighed. “I haven’t thought of that yet. Really, we have so much on our hands that I cannot be teased with thinking of any more plans just now!”

“Will you let me suggest a plan to you, Pen?”

“Yes, certainly, if you can think of one. But first I should like to see Piers, because I still cannot quite believe that he truly wishes to marry Lydia. Why, she does nothing but cry, Richard!”

Sir Richard looked down at her enigmatically. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better if you saw Piers first. People—especially young men—change a great deal in five years, brat.”

“True,” she said, in a melancholy tone. “But I didn’t change!”

“I think perhaps you did,” he said gently.

She seemed unconvinced, and he did not press the point. The waiter came in to clear away the covers, and hardly had he left the parlour than Major Daubenay’s card was brought to Sir Richard.

Pen, changing colour, exclaimed: “Oh dear, now I wish I weren’t here! I suppose I can’t escape now, can I?”

“Hardly. You would undoubtedly walk straight into the Major’s arms. But I won’t let him beat you.”

“Well, I hope you won’t!” said Pen fervently. “Tell me quickly, how does a person look depraved? Do I look depraved?”

“Not in the least. The best you can hope for is to look sulky.”

She retired to a chair in the corner, and sprawled in it, trying to scowl. “Like this?”

“Excellent!” approved Sir Richard.

A minute later, Major Daubenay was ushered into the parlour. He was a harassed-looking man, with a high colour, and upon finding himself confronted by the tall, immaculate figure of a Corinthian, he exclaimed: “Good Gad! You are Sir Richard Wyndham!”

Pen, glowering in the corner, could only admire the perfection of Sir Richard’s bow. The Major’s slightly protuberant eyes discovered her. “And this is the young dog who has been trifling with my daughter!”

“Again?” said Sir Richard wearily.

The Major’s eyes stared at him. “Upon my soul, sir! Do you tell me that this—this young scoundrel is in the habit of seducing innocent females?”

“Dear me, is it as bad as that?” asked Sir Richard.

“No, sir, it is not!” fumed the Major. “But when I tell you that my daughter has confessed that she went out last night to meet him clandestinely in a wood, and has met him many times before in Bath—”

Up came Sir Richard’s quizzing-glass. “I condole with you,” he said. “Your daughter would appear to be a young lady of enterprise.”

“My daughter,” declared the Major, “is a silly little miss! I do not know what young people are coming to! This young man—dear me, he looks no more than a lad!—is, I understand, a relative of yours?”

“My cousin,” said Sir Richard. “I am—er—his mother’s trustee. She is a widow.”

“I see that I have come to the proper person!” said the Major.

Sir Richard raised one languid hand. “I beg you will acquit me of all responsibility, sir. My part is merely to remove my cousin from the care of a tutor who has proved himself wholly incapable of controlling his—er—activities, and to convey him to his mother’s home.”

“But what are you doing in Queen Charlton, then?” demanded the Major.

It was plain that Sir Richard considered the question an impertinence. “I have acquaintances in the neighbourhood, sir. I scarcely think I need trouble you with the reasons which led me to break a journey which cannot be other than—er—excessively distasteful to me. Pen, make your bow!”

“Pen?” repeated the Major, glaring at her.

“He was named after the great Quaker,” explained Sir Richard.

“Indeed! Then I would have you know, sir, that his behaviour scarcely befits his name!”

“You are perfectly right,” agreed Sir Richard. “I regret to say that he has been a constant source of anxiety to his widowed parent.”

“He seems very young,” said the Major, scanning Pen critically.

“But, alas, old in sin!”

The Major was slightly taken aback. “Oh, come, come, sir! I daresay it is not as bad as that! One must make allowances for young people. To be sure, it is very reprehensible, and I do not by any means exonerate my daughter from blame, but the springtime of life, you know, sir! Young people take such romantic notions into their heads—not but what I am excessively shocked to learn of clandestine meetings! But when two young persons fall in love, I believe—”

“In love!” interpolated Sir Richard, apparently thunderstruck.

“Well, well, I daresay you are surprised! One is apt to fancy the birds always too young to leave the nest, eh? But—”

“Pen!” said Sir Richard, turning awfully upon his supposed cousin. “Is it possible that you can have made serious advances towards Miss Daubenay?”

“I never offered marriage,” said Pen, hanging her head.

The Major seemed to be in danger of suffering an apoplexy. Before he could recover the power of speech, Sir Richard had intervened. Upon the Major’s bemused ears fell a description of Pen’s shameless precocity that caused the object of it to turn away hastily to hide her laughter. According to Sir Richard’s malicious tongue, Bath was strewn with her innocent victims. When Sir Richard let fall the information that this youthful moral leper was without means or expectations, the Major found enough breath to declare that the whelp ought to be horsewhipped.

“Precisely my own view,” bowed Sir Richard.

“Upon my word, I had not dreamed of such a thing! Penniless, you say?”

“Little better than a pauper,” said Sir Richard.

“Good Gad, what an escape!” gasped the Major. “I do not know what to say! I am aghast!”

“Alas!” said Sir Richard, “his father was just such another! The same disarming air of innocence hid a wolfish heart.”

“You appal me!” declared the Major. “Yet he looks a mere boy!”

Pen, feeling that it was time she bore a part in the scene, said with an air of innocence which horrified the Major: “But if Lydia says I offered marriage, it is not true. It was all mere trifling. I do not wish to be married.”

This pronouncement once more bereft the Major of speech. Sir Richard’s forefinger banished Pen to her corner, and by the time the outraged parent ceased gobbling, he had once more taken charge of the situation. He agreed that the whole affair must at all costs be hushed up, promised to deal faithfully with Pen, and finally escorted the Major out of the parlour, with assurances that such depravity should not go unpunished.

Pen, who had been struggling with an overwhelming desire to laugh, went off into a peal of mirth as soon as the Major was out of earshot, and had, in fact, to grasp a chairback to support herself. In this posture she was discovered by Mr Luttrell, who, as soon as Sir Richard and the Major had passed through the entrance-parlour, oblivious of his presence there, bounced in upon Pen, and said through shut teeth: “So! You think it damned amusing, do you, you little cur? Well, I do not!”

Pen raised her head, and through brimming eyes saw the face of her old playmate swim before her.

Mr Luttrell, stuttering with rage, said menacingly: “I heard you! I could not help but hear you! So you didn’t intend marriage, eh? You—you boast of having t—trifled with an innocent female! And you think you c-can get off scot-free, do you? I’ll teach you a lesson!”

Pen discovered to her horror that Mr Luttrell was advancing upon her with his fists clenched. She dodged behind the table, and shrieked: “Piers! Don’t you know me? Piers, look at me! I’m Pen!”

Mr Luttrell dropped his fists, and stood gaping. “Pen?” he managed to utter. “Pen?”