The Corinthian

Chapter 2

Lord Saar lived in Brook Street with his wife, and his family of two sons and four daughters. Sir Richard Wyndham, driving to his prospective father-in-law’s house twenty-four hours after his interview with his own parent, was fortunate enough to find Saar away from home, and Lady Saar, the butler informed him, on her way to Bath with the Honourable Sophia. He fell instead into the arms of the Honourable Cedric Brandon, a rakish young gentleman of lamentable habits, and a disastrous charm of manner.

“Ricky, my only friend!” cried the Honourable Cedric, dragging Sir Richard into a small saloon at the back of the house. “Don’t tell me you’ve come to offer for Melissa! They say good news don’t kill a man, but I never listen to gossip! M’father says ruin stares us in the face. Lend me the money, dear boy, and I’ll buy myself a pair of colours, and be off to the Peninsula, damme if I won’t! But listen to me, Ricky! Are you listening?” He looked anxiously at Sir Richard, appeared satisfied, and said, wagging a solemn finger: “Don’t do it! There isn’t a fortune big enough to settle our little affairs: take my word for it! Have nothing to do with Beverley! They say Fox gamed away a fortune before he was twenty-one. Give you my word, he was nothing to Bev, nothing at all. Between ourselves, Ricky, the old man has taken to brandy. H’sh! Not a word! Mustn’t tell tales about m’father! But run, Ricky! That’s my advice to you: run!”

“Would you buy yourself a pair of colours, if I gave you the money?” asked Sir Richard.

“Sober, yes; drunk, no!” replied Cedric, with his wholly disarming smile. “I’m very sober now, but I shan’t be so for long. Don’t give me a groat, dear old boy! Don’t give Bev a groat! He’s a bad man. Now, when I’m sober I’m a good man—but I ain’t sober above six hours out of the twenty-four, so you be warned! Now I’m off. I’ve done my best for you, for I like you, Ricky, but if you go to perdition in spite of me, I’ll wash my hands of you. No, damme, I’ll sponge on you for the rest of my days! Think, dear boy, think! Bev and your very obedient on your doorstep six days out of seven—duns—threats—wife’s brothers done-up—pockets to let—wife in tears—nothing to do but pay! Don’t do it! Fact is, we ain’t worth it!”

“Wait!” Sir Richard said, barring his passage. “If I settle your debts, will you go to the Peninsula?”

“Ricky, it’s you who aren’t sober. Go home!”

“Consider, Cedric, how well you would look in Hussar uniform!”

An impish smile danced in Cedric’s eyes. “Wouldn’t I just! But at this present I’d look better in Hyde Park. Out of the way, dear boy! I’ve a very important engagement. Backed a goose to win a hundred-yard race against a turkey-cock. Can’t lose! Greatest sporting event of the season!”

He was gone on the words, leaving Sir Richard, not, indeed, to run, as advised, but to await the pleasure of the Honourable Melissa Brandon,

She did not keep him waiting for long. A servant came to request him to step upstairs, and he followed the man up the wide staircase to the withdrawing-room on the first floor.

Melissa Brandon was a handsome, dark-haired young woman, a little more than twenty-five years old. Her profile was held to be faultless, but in full face her eyes were discovered to be rather too hard for beauty. She had not, in her first seasons, lacked suitors, but none of the gentlemen attracted by her undeniable good looks, had ever, in the cock-fighting phrase of her graceless elder brother, come up to scratch. As he bowed over her hand, Sir Richard remembered George’s iceberg simile, and at once banished it from his obedient mind.

“Well, Richard?”

Melissa’s voice was cool, rather matter-of-fact, just as her smile seemed more a mechanical civility than a spontaneous expression of pleasure.

“I hope I see you well, Melissa?” Sir Richard said formally.

“Perfectly, I thank you. Pray sit down! I apprehend that you have come to discuss the question of our marriage.”

He regarded her from under slightly raised brows. “Dear me!” he said mildly. “Someone would appear to have been busy.”

She was engaged upon some stitchery, and went on plying her needle with unruffled composure. “Do not let us beat about the bush!” she said. “I am certainly past the age of being missish, and you, I believe, may rank as a sensible man.”

“Were you ever missish?” enquired Sir Richard.

“I trust not. I have no patience with such folly. Nor am I romantic. In that respect, we must be thought to be well-suited.”

“Must we?” said Sir Richard, gently swinging his gold-handled quizzing-glass to and fro.

She seemed amused. “Certainly! I trust you have not, at this late date, grown sentimental! It would be quite absurd!”

“Senility,” pensively observed Sir Richard, “often brings sentiment in its train. Or so I have been informed.”

“We need not concern ourselves with that. I like you very well, Richard, but there is just a little nonsense in your disposition which makes you turn everything to jest. I myself am of a more serious nature.”

“Then in that respect, we cannot be thought to be well-suited,” suggested Sir Richard.

“I do not consider the objection insuperable. The life you have chosen to lead up till now has not been such as to encourage serious reflection, after all. I dare say you may grow more dependable, for you do not want for sense. That, however, must be left to the future. At all events, I am not so unreasonable as to feel the difference in our natures to be an impassable barrier to marriage.”

“Melissa,” said Sir Richard, “will you tell me something?”

She looked up. “Pray, what do you wish me to tell you?”

“Have you ever been in love?” asked Sir Richard.

She coloured slightly. “No. From my observation, I am thankful that I have not. There is something excessively vulgar about persons under the sway of strong emotions. I do not say it is wrong, but I believe I have something more of fastidiousness than most, and I find such subjects extremely distasteful.”

“You do not,” Sir Richard drawled, “envisage the possibility of—er—falling in love at some future date?”

“My dear Richard! With whom, pray?”

“Shall we say with myself?”

She laughed. “Now you are being absurd! If you were told that it would be necessary to approach me with some show of love-making, you were badly advised. Ours would be a marriage of convenience. I could contemplate nothing else. I like you very well, but you are not at all the sort of man to arouse those warmer passions in my breast. But I see no reason why that should worry either of us. If you were romantic, it would be a different matter.”

“I fear,” said Sir Richard, “that I must be very romantic”

“I suppose you are jesting again,” she replied, with a faint shrug.

“Not at all. I am so romantic that I indulge my fancy with the thought of some woman—doubtless mythical—who might desire to marry me, not because I am a very rich man, but because—you will have to forgive the vulgarity—because she loved me!”

She looked rather contemptuous. “I should have supposed you to be past the age of fustian, Richard. I say nothing against love, but, frankly, love-matches seem to me a trifle beneath us. One would say you had been hobnobbing with the bourgeoisie at Islington Spa, or some such low place! I do not forget that I am a Brandon. I dare say we are very proud; indeed, I hope we are!”

“That,” said Sir Richard dryly, “is an aspect of the situation which, I confess, had not so far occurred to me.”

She was amazed. “I had not thought it possible! I imagined everyone knew what we Brandons feel about our name, our birth, our tradition!”

“I hesitate to wound you, Melissa,” said Sir Richard, “but the spectacle of a woman of your name, birth, and tradition, cold-bloodedly offering herself to the highest bidder is not one calculated to impress the world with a very strong notion of her pride.”

“This is indeed the language of the theatre!” she exclaimed. “My duty to my family demands that I should marry well, but let me assure you that, even that could not make me stoop to ally myself with one of inferior breeding.”

“Ah, this is pride indeed!” said Sir Richard, faintly smiling.

“I do not understand you. You must know that my father’s affairs are in such case as—in short—”

“I am aware,” Sir Richard said gently. “I apprehend it is to be my privilege to—er—unravel Lord Saar’s affairs.”

“But of course!” she replied, surprised out of her statuesque calm. “No other consideration could have prevailed upon me to accept your suit!”

“This,” said Sir Richard, pensively regarding the toe of one Hessian boot, “becomes a trifle delicate. If frankness is to be the order of the day, my dear Melissa, I must point out to you that I have not yet—er—proffered my suit.”

She was quite undisturbed by this snub, but replied coldly: “I did not suppose that you would so far forget what is due to our positions as to approach me with an offer. We do not belong to that world. You will no doubt seek an interview with my father.”

“I wonder if I shall?” said Sir Richard.

“I imagine that you most certainly will,” responded the lady, snipping her thread. “Your circumstances are as well known to me as mine are to you. If I may say so bluntly, you are fortunate to be in a position to offer for a Brandon.”

He looked meditatively at her, but made no remark. After a pause, she continued: “As for the future, neither of us, I trust, would make great demands upon the other. You have your amusements: they do not concern me, and however much my reason may deprecate your addiction to pugilism, curricle-racing, and deep basset—”

“Pharaoh,” he interpolated.

“Very well, pharaoh: it is all one. However much I may deprecate such follies, I say, I do not desire to interfere with your tastes.”

“You are very obliging,” bowed Sir Richard. “Bluntly, Melissa, I may do as I please if I will hand you my purse?”

“That is putting it bluntly indeed,” she replied composedly. She folded up her needlework, and laid it aside. “Papa has been expecting a visit from you. He will be sorry to hear that you called while he was away from home. He will be with us again to-morrow, and you may be sure of finding him, if you care to call at—shall we say eleven o’clock?”

He rose. “Thank you, Melissa. I feel that my time has not been wasted, even though Lord Saar was not here to receive me.”

“I hope not, indeed,” she said, extending her hand. “Come! We have had a talk which must, I feel, prove valuable. You think me unfeeling, I dare say, but you will do me the justice to admit that I have not stooped to unworthy pretence. Our situation is peculiar, which is why I overcame my reluctance to discuss the question of our marriage with you. We have been as good as betrothed these five years, and more.”

He took her hand. “Have you considered yourself betrothed to me these five years?” he enquired.

For the first time in their interview her eyes failed to meet his. “Certainly,” she replied.

“I see,” said Sir Richard, and took his leave of her.

He put in a belated appearance at Almack’s that evening. No one, admiring his point-de-vice appearance, or listening to his lazy drawl, could have supposed him to be on the eve of making the most momentous decision of his life. Only his uncle, rolling into the club some time after midnight, and observing the dead men at his elbow, guessed that the die had been cast. He told George Trevor, whom he found just rising from the basset-table, that Ricky was taking it hard, a pronouncement which distressed George, and made him say: “I have not exchanged two words with him. Do you tell me he has actually offered for Melissa Brandon?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” said Lucius. “All I say is that he’s drinking hard and plunging deep.”

In great concern, George seized the first opportunity that offered of engaging his brother-in-law’s attention. This was not until close on three o’clock, when Sir Richard at last rose from the pharaoh-table, and Sir Richard was not, by that time, in the mood for private conversation. He had lost quite a large sum of money, and had drunk quite a large quantity of brandy, but neither of these circumstances was troubling him.

“No luck, Ricky?” his uncle asked him.

A somewhat hazy but still perfectly intelligent glance mocked him. “Not at cards, Lucius. But think of the adage!”

George knew that Sir Richard could carry his wine as well as any man of his acquaintance, but a certain reckless note in his voice alarmed him. He plucked at his sleeve, and said in a lowered tone: “I wish you will let me have a word with you!”

“Dear George—my very dear George!” said Sir Richard, amiably smiling. “You must be aware that I am not—quite—sober. No words to-night.”

“I shall come round to see you in the morning, then,” said George, forgetting that it was already morning.

“I shall have the devil of a head,” said Sir Richard.

He made his way out of the club, his curly-brimmed hat at an angle on his head, his ebony cane tucked under one arm. He declined the porter’s offer to call up a chair, remarking sweetly: “I am devilish drunk, and I shall walk.”

The porter grinned. He had seen many gentlemen in all the various stages of inebriety, and he did not think that Sir Richard, who spoke with only the faintest slurring of his words, and who walked with quite wonderful balance, was in very desperate straits. If he had not known Sir Richard well, he would not, he thought, have seen anything amiss with him, beyond his setting off in quite the wrong direction for St James’s Square. He felt constrained to call Sir Richard’s attention to this, but begged pardon when Sir Richard said: “I know. The dawn is calling me, however. I am going for a long, long walk.”

“Quite so, sir,” said the porter, and stepped back.

Sir Richard, his head swimming a little from sudden contact with the cool air, strolled aimlessly away in a northerly direction.

His head cleared after a while. In a detached manner, he reflected that it would probably begin to ache in a short time, and he would feel extremely unwell, and not a little sorry for himself. At the moment, however, while the fumes of brandy still wreathed about his brain, a curious irresponsibility possessed him. He felt reckless, remote, divorced from his past and his future. The dawn was spreading a grey light over the quiet streets, and the breeze fanning his cheeks was cool, and fresh enough to make him glad of his light evening cloak. He wandered into Brook Street, and laughed up at the shuttered windows of Saar’s house. “My gentle bride!” he said, and kissed his fingers in the direction of the house. “God, what a damned fool I am!”

He repeated this, vaguely pleased with the remark, and walked down the long street. It occurred to him that his gentle bride would scarcely be flattered, if she could see him now, and this thought made him laugh again. The Watch, encountered at the north end of Grosvenor Square, eyed him dubiously, and gave him a wide berth. Gentlemen in Sir Richard’s condition not infrequently amused themselves with a light-hearted pastime known as Boxing the Watch, and this member of that praiseworthy force was not anxious to court trouble.

Sir Richard did not notice the Watch, nor, to do him justice, would he have felt in the least tempted to molest him if he had noticed him. Somewhere, in the recesses of his brain, Sir Richard was aware that he was the unluckiest dog alive. He felt very bitter about this, as though all the world were in league against him; and, as he branched off erratically down a quiet side street, he was cynically sorry for himself, that in ten years spent in the best circles he had not had the common good fortune to meet one female whose charms had cost him a single hour’s sleep. It did not seem probable that he would be more fortunate in the future. “Which, I suppose,” remarked Sir Richard to one of the new gas-lamps, “is a—is a consummation devoutly to be wished, since I am about to offer for Melissa Brandon.”

It was at this moment that he became aware of a peculiar circumstance. Someone was climbing out of a second-storey window of one of the prim houses on the opposite side of the street.

Sir Richard stood still, and blinked at this unexpected sight. His divine detachment still clung to him; he was interested in what he saw, but by no means concerned with it. “Undoubtedly a burglar,” he said, and leaned nonchalantly on his cane to watch the end of the adventure. His somewhat sleepy gaze discovered that whoever was escaping from the prim house was proposing to do so by means of knotted sheets, which fell disastrously short of the ground. “Not a burglar,” decided Sir Richard, and crossed the road.

By the time he had reached the opposite kerbstone, the mysterious fugitive had arrived, somewhat fortuitously, at the end of his improvised rope, and was dangling precariously above the shallow area, trying with one desperate foot to find some kind of a resting-place on the wall of the house. Sir Richard saw that he was a very slight youth, only a boy, in fact, and went in a leisurely fashion to the rescue.

The fugitive caught sight of him as he descended the area-steps, and gasped with a mixture of fright and thankfulness: “Oh! Could you help me, please? I didn’t know it was so far. I thought I should be able to jump, only I don’t think I can.”

“My engaging youth,” said Sir Richard, looking up at the flushed face peering down at him. “What, may I ask, are you doing on the end of that rope?”

“Hush!” begged the fugitive. “Do you think you could catch me, if I let go?”

“I will do my poor best,” promised Sir Richard.

The fugitive’s feet were only just above his reach, and in another five seconds the fugitive descended into his arms with a rush that made him stagger, and almost lose his balance. He retained it by a miracle, clasping strongly to his chest an unexpectedly light body.

Sir Richard was not precisely sober, but although the brandy fumes had produced in his brain a not unpleasant sense of irresponsibility, they had by no means fuddled his intellect. Sir Richard, his chin tickled by curls, and his arms full of fugitive, made a surprising discovery. He set the fugitive down, saying in a matter-of-fact voice: “Yes, but I don’t think you are a youth, after all.”

“No, I’m a girl,” replied the fugitive, apparently undismayed by his discovery. “But, please, will you come away before they wake up?”

“Who?” asked Sir Richard.

“My aunt—all of them!” whispered the fugitive. “I am very much obliged to you for helping me—and do you think you could untie this knot, if you please? You see, I had to tie my bundle on my back, and now I can’t undo it. And where is my hat?”

“It fell off,” said Sir Richard, picking it up, and dusting it on his sleeve. “I am not quite sober, you know—in fact, I am drunk—but I cannot help feeling that this is all a trifle—shall we say—irregular?”

“Yes, but there was nothing else to be done,” explained the fugitive, trying to look over her own shoulder at what Sir Richard was doing with the recalcitrant knot.

“Oblige me by standing still!” requested Sir Richard.

“Oh, I am sorry! I can’t think how it worked right round me like that. Thank you! I am truly grateful to you!”

Sir Richard was eyeing the bundle through his quizzing-glass. “Are you a burglar?” he enquired.

A chuckle, hastily choked, greeted this. “No, of course I’m not. I couldn’t manage a bandbox, so I had to tie all my things up in a shawl. And now I think I must be going, if you please.”

“Drunk I undoubtedly am,” said Sir Richard, “but some remnants of sanity still remain with me. You cannot, my good child, wander about the streets of London at this hour of night, and dressed in those clothes. I believe I ought to ring that bell, and hand you over to your—aunt, did you say?”

Two agitated hands clasped his arm. “Oh, don’t!” begged the fugitive. “Please don’t!”

“Well, what am I to do with you?” asked Sir Richard.

“Nothing. Only tell me the way to Holborn!”

“Why Holborn?”

“I have to go to the White Horse Inn, to catch the stagecoach for Bristol.”

“That settles it,” said Sir Richard. “I will not set you a foot on your way until I have the whole story from you. It’s my belief you are a dangerous criminal.”

“I am not!” said the fugitive indignantly. “Anyone with the veriest speck of sensibility would feel for my plight! I am escaping from the most odious persecution.”

“Fortunate child!” said Sir Richard, taking her bundle from her. “I wish I might do the same. Let us remove from this neighbourhood. I have seldom seen a street that depressed me more. I can’t think how I came here. Do you feel that our agreeable encounter would be improved by an exchange of names, or are you travelling incognita?”

“Yes, I shall have to make up a name for myself. I hadn’t thought of that. My real name is Penelope Creed. Who are you?”

“I,” said Sir Richard, “am Richard Wyndham, wholly at your service.”

“Beau Wyndham?” asked Miss Creed knowledgeably.

“Beau Wyndham,” bowed Sir Richard. “Is it possible that we can have met before?”

“Oh no, but of course I have heard of you. My cousin tries to tie his cravat in a Wyndham Fall. At least, that is what he says it is, but it looks like a muddle to me.”

“Then it is not a Wyndham Fall,” said Sir Richard firmly.

“No, that’s what I thought. My cousin tries to be a dandy, but he has a face like a fish. They want me to marry him.”

“What a horrible thought!” said Sir Richard, shuddering.

“I told you you would feel for my plight!” said Miss Creed. “So would you now set me on my way to Holborn?”

“No,” replied Sir Richard.

“But you must!” declared Miss Creed, on a note of panic. “Where are we going?”

“I cannot walk about the streets all night. We had better repair to my house to discuss this matter.”

“No!” said Miss Creed, standing stock-still in the middle of the pavement.

Sir Richard sighed. “Rid yourself of the notion that I cherish any villainous designs upon your person,” he said. “I imagine I might well be your father. How old are you?”

“I am turned seventeen.”

“Well, I am nearly thirty,” said Sir Richard.

Miss Creed worked this out. “You couldn’t possibly be my father!”

“I am far too drunk to solve arithmetical problems. Let it suffice that I have not the slightest intention of making love to you.”

“Well, then, I don’t mind accompanying you” said Miss Creed handsomely. “Are you really drunk?”

“Vilely,” said Sir Richard.

“No one would credit it, I assure you. You carry your wine very well.”

“You speak as one with experience in these matters,” said Sir Richard.

“My father was used to say that it was most important to see how a man behaved when in his cups. My cousin becomes excessively silly.”

“You know,” said Sir Richard, knitting his brows, “the more I hear of this cousin of yours the more I feel you should not be allowed to marry him. Where are we now?”

“Piccadilly, I think,” replied Miss Creed.

“Good! I live in St James’s Square. Why do they want you to marry your cousin?”

“Because,” said Miss Creed mournfully, “I am cursed with a large fortune!”

Sir Richard halted in the middle of the road. “Cursed with a large fortune?” he repeated.

“Yes, indeed. You see, my father had no other children, and I believe I am most fabulously wealthy, besides having a house in Somerset, which they won’t let me live in. When he died I had to live with Aunt Almeria. I was only twelve years old, you see. And now she is persecuting me to marry my cousin Frederick. So I ran away.”

“The man with a face like a fish?”

“Yes.”

“You did quite right,” said Sir Richard.

“Well, I think I did.”

“Not a doubt of it. Why Holborn?”

“I told you,” replied Miss Creed patiently. “I am going to get on the Bristol coach.”

“Oh! Why Bristol?”

“Well, I’m not going to Bristol precisely, but my house is in Somerset, and I have a very great friend there. I haven’t seen him for nearly five years, but we used to play together, and we pricked our fingers—mixing the blood, you know—and we made a vow to marry one another when we were grown-up.”

This is all very romantic,” commented Sir Richard.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Miss Creed enthusiastically. “You are not married, are you?”

“No. Oh, my God!”

“Why, what is the matter?”

“I’ve just remembered that I am going to be.”

“Don’t you want to be?”

“No.”

“But no one could force you to be married!”

“My good girl, you do not know my relatives,” said Sir Richard bitterly.

“Did they talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you? And say it was your duty? And plague your life out? And cry at you?” asked Miss Creed.

“Something of the sort,” admitted Sir Richard. “Is that what your relatives did to you?”

“Yes. So I stole Geoffrey’s second-best suit, and climbed out of the window.”

“Who is Geoffrey?”

“Oh, he is my other cousin! He is at Harrow, and his clothes fit me perfectly. Is this your house?”

“This is my house.”

“But wait!” said Miss Creed. “Will not the porter be sitting up to open the door to you?”

“I don’t encourage people to sit up for me,” said Sir Richard, producing from his pocket a key, and fitting it into the lock.

“But I expect you have a valet,” suggested Miss Creed, hanging back. “He will be waiting to help you to bed.”

“True,” said Sir Richard. “But he will not come to my room until I ring the bell. You need have no fear.”

“Oh, in that case—!” said Miss Creed, relieved, and followed him blithely into the house.

A lamp was burning in the hall, and a candle was placed on a marble-topped table, in readiness for Sir Richard. He kindled it by thrusting it into the lamp, and led his guest into the library. Here there were more candles, in chandeliers fixed to the wall. Sir Richard lit as many of these as seemed good to him, and turned to inspect Miss Creed.

She had taken off her hat, and was standing in the middle of the room, looking interestedly about her. Her hair, which clustered in feathery curls on the top of her head, and was somewhat raggedly cut at the back, was guinea-gold; her eyes were a deep blue, very large and trustful, and apt at any moment to twinkle with merriment. She had a short little nose, slightly freckled, a most decided chin, and a pair of dimples.

Sir Richard, critically observing her, was unimpressed by these charms. He said: “You look the most complete urchin indeed!”

She seemed to take this as a tribute. She raised her candid eyes to his face, and said: “Do I? Truly?”

His gaze travelled slowly over her borrowed raiment. “Horrible!” he said. “Are you under the impression that you have tied that—that travesty of a cravat in a Wyndham Fall?”

“No, but the thing is I have never tied a cravat before,” she explained.

“That,” said Sir Richard, “is obvious. Come here!”

She approached obediently, and stood still while his expert fingers wrought with the crumpled folds round her neck.

“No, it is beyond even my skill,” he said at last. “I shall have to lend you one of mine. Never mind; sit down, and let us talk this matter over. My recollection is none of the clearest, but I fancy you said you were going into Somerset to marry a friend of your childhood.”

“Yes, Piers Luttrell,” nodded Miss Creed, seating herself in a large arm-chair.

“Furthermore, you are just seventeen.”

“Turned seventeen,” she corrected.

“Don’t quibble! And you propose to undertake this journey as a passenger on an Accommodation coach?”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Creed.

“And, as though this were not enough, you are going alone?”

“Of course I am.”

“My dear child,” said Sir Richard, “drunk I may be, but not so drunk as to acquiesce in this fantastic scheme, believe me.”

“I don’t think you are drunk,” said Miss Creed. “Besides, it has nothing to do with you! You cannot interfere in my affairs merely because you helped me out of the window.”

“I didn’t help you out of the window. Something tells me I ought to restore you to the bosom of your family.”

Miss Creed turned rather white, and said in a small, but very clear voice: “If you did that it would be the most cruel—the most treacherous thing in the world!”

“I suppose it would,” he admitted.

There was a pause. Sir Richard unfobbed his snuff-box with a flick of one practised finger, and took a pinch. Miss Creed swallowed, and said: “If you had ever seen my cousin, you would understand.”

He glanced down at her, but said nothing.

“He has a wet mouth,” said Miss Creed despairingly.

“That settles it,” said Sir Richard, shutting his snuff-box. “I will escort you to your childhood’s friend.”

Miss Creed blushed. “You? But you can’t!”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because—because I don’t know you, and I can very well go by myself, and—well, it’s quite absurd! I see now that you are drunk.”

“Let me inform you,” said Sir Richard, “that missish airs don’t suit those clothes. Moreover, I don’t like them. Either you will travel to Somerset in my company, or you will go back to your aunt. Take your choice!”

“Do please consider!” begged Miss Creed. “You know I am obliged to travel in the greatest secrecy. If you went with me, no one would know what had become of you.”

“No one would know what had become of me,” repeated Sir Richard slowly. “No one—my girl, you have no longer any choice: I am going with you to Somerset!”