The Double Wager

Chapter 7

Henry did not see a great deal of Giles in the few weeks following his arrival in London. He avoided the round of social events that she now attended almost with enjoyment. He did visit her and the twins occasionally, and she sometimes spotted him in Hyde Park during the afternoons, when the whole fashionable world, it seemed, paraded on horseback, in carriages, and on foot. He was always with a group of fashionable young men, some of them outright dandies. She noticed that Giles, too, now dressed in the height of fashion. His collar points were often so high that Henry wondered how he could turn his head or even see to right or left. His coats were so close-fitting that she imagined he must have been poured into them. His boots were so shiny that they must surely be polished with champagne, an affectation that was current among some of the young bucks, she had heard.

Henry was amused at her brother's obvious enjoyment of town life. She had always thought he was like she used to be, happy only in the country when free of social restraints.

She became alarmed for him one afternoon, though, when he visited. The twins were away from home. Eversleigh had begun to spend more time with them since their escapade at the balloon launching. On this particular day, they had gone to the Tower of London to see the gate leading into the building from the River Thames that condemned persons used to enter prior to execution. They

also hoped to see the dungeons and the axes used to decapitate condemned nobles.

"There are other things to see there, you know," Eversleigh had suggested in his languid way.

"Such as?" Penelope asked.

"Furniture, jewels, a magnificent view of London from the turrets."

"Ugh! Let us stick with the interesting stuff," Penelope replied.

"Quite so, Penny," he agreed. "An admirable decision."

Henry had reluctantly remained behind because she was expecting callers. The guests left soon after the arrival of Giles.

"You are very quiet, Giles," she remarked when they were alone together.

"Well, I don't know those people," he replied.

"No, it's not that," she said, considering him for a while. "Is town life not agreeing with you?"

He shrugged. "It's well enough."

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, Henry," he said impatiently. "Don't fuss so."

"I know you too well, Giles," she protested, refusing to drop the topic. "Is it Peter? Or Marian? Are they giving you a hard time? Why do you not come to live here? Marius would not mind, truly."

"Henry, don't be such a bumble brain!" her brother said lovingly. "Can you seriously imagine me moving in with Eversleigh? Anyway, Peter and Marian are all right.'; I think Peter is reserving his energies for sending me back to Oxford in the autumn."

"It must be money, then," she decided. "Are you pockets to let, Giles?"

"Nothing to signify," he replied, rising from his chair and pacing restlessly across the room. "You used not to be such a shrew, Henry. You were always a good fellow."

"And you used to confide in me, Giles," she returned tartly. "It is money, is it not? You have been spending on clothes and jewels, like as not, to keep up with your friends. How much do you owe?"

"Nothing that I cannot pay sooner or later," he said sullenly.

"How much, Giles?"

He paused and rocked on his heels. "It is not as simple as clothes, Henry."

She looked sharply at him. "Oh, not gambling, Giles," she cried.

He strode back across the room and sat down opposite her. "I started by playing just for fun and for small stakes," he said. "Then I lost a bit, and I owed money all over the city for boots and clothes and such. I thought if I played for higher stakes, my luck would have to change. I promised myself that I would stop playing for all time if I could just win enough money to cover my debts."

"And you did not?"

"I came close one night," he said ruefully, "but my luck did not hold. I lost all my winnings and more besides. And since then I have got in pretty deep."

"How much do you owe, Giles?"

"Oh, nothing to worry your pretty head over," he said airily. "I shall come about."

"But not by more gambling, Giles?"

"No," he agreed slowly. "I shall have to think of something else."

"But what?"

He hesitated. I shall have to go to the moneylenders," lie said. "With very careful prudence I shall pay it off eventually. At least I shall not have creditors hounding me at every turn."

Henry shot out of her chair. "Moneylenders?" she cried. 1 have heard of them, Giles. It is said that once you get into their clutches, you never get free. They charge interest that just builds and builds."

"Well, I have no choice," he said emphatically. "And it is not your worry, Henry. I ought not even to have told you.

"Indeed, I am glad you did," she retorted. "You must promise me not to go to a moneylender, Giles. I shall pay your debt. How much is it?"

He laughed mirthlessly. "I am afraid it is beyond any help you might offer, Henry. But thank you, anyway."

"How much, Giles?"

He stared at her for a moment. "Three thousand," he said.

"Three thousand!" she shrieked. "Giles, have you taken leave of your senses? You must have been in gambling dens every spare moment since you were sent down."

"Don't say anything to Eversleigh or to Peter," Giles said. "I shall work this out somehow, Henry."

"Yes, in debtors' prison!" she replied sharply. "Giles, I shall get the money. And do not worry, I shall not beg it from Marius. He has been extremely generous. I have almost enough. The rest I shall get easily. But you must promise me not to go to a moneylender. "Will you, Giles? Please?"

Giles was very doubtful and reluctant. At first he refused to accept help in any form from his sister. But gradually he salvaged his pride by declaring that he would accept the money from her as a loan, to be paid back as quickly as he possibly could. He promised neither to visit a moneylender nor to blow his brains out. He was to return in three days' time to collect the money from his sister.

As soon as he had left, Henry ran up to her room and threw herself onto the bed. She lay staring hopelessly up at the canopy over her head. She had no idea how she was to raise the money to help Giles. She had not lied to him when she had said that Marius was generous. He showered gifts on her and made her a very generous money allowance. But Henry was a spendthrift. She could not have money without spending it. And her main clothing bills went directly to her husband, without touching her purse." She knew without troubling to look that her purse held only a small cluster of loose change, a few guineas at the most. It would not go a long way to paying Giles' debt.

She considered breaking her promise and confiding the problem to Marius. She had no doubt at all that he would immediately, and almost without question, write out a bank draft for the full amount and would not even demand that Giles repay it. But she could not bring herself to do so, for two reasons. She had made a promise to Giles, and according to her code of honor, a promise was totally binding, especially when it had been made to her brother, with whom she had always been very close. Second, she could not bring herself to admit to Marius that yet another member of her family was in a scrape. She craved his good

opinion, though why this was so she had not stopped to consider. She could not tell him.

She did think of asking him for the money under some other pretext. But how could she justify asking for three thousand pounds? A new bonnet? New kid gloves? There was no possible way she could do it.

Henry was still searching her mind for a solution an hour later when she heard the voices of the twins in the distance and the barking of Brutus. She sighed and rose to ring for Betty. It was time to dress for dinner. She did not want to be caught lying on her bed in the daytime, something she almost never did. Sometimes Marius wandered into her room from the adjoining dressing room to talk with her for a few minutes.

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Henry was still wrestling with her problem the following afternoon when she took her phaeton for a drive in the park. She had stayed at home all morning and had instructed the butler to tell any visitors that she was away from home. But all she had to show for her concentrated thinking was a headache and a cross mood. She decided that she needed some fresh air and light conversation with some of her acquaintances. She felt slightly cheered by the court of young men who were soon riding alongside her, lavishly complimenting her on her new blue bonnet and soliciting her hand for dances at Lady Sefton's ball the following evening. She gave a special smile to Oliver Cranshawe, who was on foot and just bidding farewell to a trio of ladies, who were also out strolling in the park.

"Good afternoon, your Grace," he called, flashing his white smile and bowing gracefully as he swept off his hat. "Your beauty rivals the day, as usual."

"And you speak with a flattering tongue, as usual, sir," she replied. "Come, take a turn in the phaeton with me and cheer me up."

He readily availed himself of the invitation. "And do you need cheering, Henry?" he asked, looking at her closely.

"I have the headache and am feeling blue-deviled," she replied airily.

"I have never known you downhearted," he said quietly, serious suddenly and giving her all his attention.

She smiled. "It is merely a passing mood, sir. Tell me, how you enjoyed the opera last evening. I saw you in Lord Cadogan's box."

"Yes, I saw you too, Henry," he replied, "and would have waited on you during one of the intermissions if Marius had left the box. But I know he don't like me. However, I believe you are trying to turn the subject. Will you tell me what has happened to trouble you, my dear? You know me to be your friend, do you not?"

"You are very kind, Oliver, but it is a private matter, And not serious, I assure you."

"Is it Marius?" he asked. "I do not wish to pry, heaven knows, but I cannot believe him to be a suitable husband for one as young and full of life as you, Henry."

"You are being ridiculous," she said. "Of course it is not Marius. He is the best of husbands. But it is something I cannot tell him. Oh, may I tell you about it, Oliver? I think it will help me just to talk it over with someone else. And perhaps you may be able to advise me."

"Be assured that I shall do all in my power," he said, all solicitous concern, and he leaned over and eased the ribbons from her hands so that he was now driving the phaeton. Henry sat back and rested her hands in her lap.

"It is Giles again," she began, and she told him the whole story, as it had happened the previous day. When she had finished, there was silence for a while. She realized that Cranshawe had guided the horses into a path that was not as heavily used as the main one, which was always crowded with horses and vehicles at this hour of the day. She smiled at him in gratitude.

"Is that all?" he asked. "That is the whole matter?" She nodded. "But, my dear Henry, there is no problem at all. I shall give you the money. It is the merest trifle, I assure you.

"Oh, I could not possibly!" she cried. "No, Oliver, I could not be so beholden to you or to any man."

"Nonsense, my dear," he assured her. "We shall call it a loan, though I shall have no real desire to recover the money. You may repay it when and as you wish. It need not weigh upon your mind at all."

Henry hesitated. "It is uncommon generous of you, she said doubtfully, "but it does not seem right, Oliver."

"Henry," he said, drawing the horses to a halt and taking one of her hands in his free one, "I am your husband's cousin and his heir. I am family. And I have a personal devotion to you that I shall not embarrass you by relating now. Please, allow me to help you and your brother. I should consider it a signal honor."

Henry looked steadily into his eyes. "I will accept, Oliver, she said, "but only on condition that the money be considered a loan. I will not accept a gift from you."

"I accept a gift from you in being the recipient of your trust," he said softly, raising the hand he still held to his lips. He lifted,-the reins and started the horses forward again as they both became aware of a lone rider cantering toward them.

Eversleigh!

"Damn!" Cranshawe swore under his breath. "I shall wait on you tomorrow morning at eleven with the money," he said hurriedly to Henry.

"Ah, my love, I was fearful that you might have had some mishap when you did not return to the main path immediately," Eversleigh said amiably as his horse drew abreast of the phaeton. "Good day, Oliver," he added, nodding briefly in the direction of his heir. "Horses all lame today?"

"Not at all, Marius," Oliver replied hastily. "I considered the day particularly suited to exercise on foot."

"Ah, then it is uncommon civil of you, dear boy, to abandon your exercise in order to keep her Grace company," Eversleigh said, viewing his cousin through his quizzing glass.

"It is always a pleasure to converse with Henry," Cranshawe replied irritably. When the duke made no move either to lower his quizzing glass or to resume his own ride, his heir was forced to turn to Henry. "Thank you for taking me up, cousin," he said. "I must leave you now. I am meeting some friends in under an hour."

"Good day, Oliver," she replied gravely, and watched him jump down and walk away in the direction of the northern gate of the park. She returned her gaze to her husband, who had lowered his quizzing glass.

"Indeed, my love, I feel most vexed that I am not on foot today. I should enjoy riding up beside you," Eversleigh said languidly. "That is a most fetching bonnet. Is it new?"

"Yes, it is," she replied airily, "and since I must wear a bonnet, I determine to buy any that take my fancy."

"Quite so," he agreed. "I believe it was a milliner's bill that almost gave James an apoplexy this morning." Henry dimpled. "But I must say, my love, that this one was worth every penny. There was hardly a male head in the main avenue that did not turn in admiration, or a female one that did not turn in envy."

"You are funning me, Marius," she said, giggling. "But I did not see you.'

"No," he agreed dryly, "a mere husband has small chance of making his presence felt in such a crush of admirers."

"Absurd!" she said, laughing, the embarrassment of a few minutes before forgotten. "Are you riding my way, your Grace?"

"No, I am not," he replied. "I have a call that must be made before I return home. I shall see you later, my love."

"Good-bye,. Marius," she said, and gave her grays the signal to start.

Eversleigh, watching her go before turning his horse in the opposite direction, had a still, brooding look on his face.

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Henry contrived to be alone in the downstairs salon by eleven o'clock the next morning. It had not been easy. Marius had lingered in the office of his secretary until just half an hour before. Henry had considered all manner of ideas for persuading him to leave the house. Fortunately, none was necessary, though she was all but hopping up and down with vexation when he took what seemed a lingering farewell of her in her room.

"You did not ride this morning, my love? Or yesterday morning either?"

"No, I did not feel like the exercise," she replied.

"What, Henry, are you becoming too ladylike for such pursuits?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Pooh!" she replied scornfully. "What could be more ladylike than mincing along at a sober trot in a sidesaddle?"

"Ah, I forget," he said gently, "it is neck or nothing for you, is it not, my love?"

She smiled. "I must not keep you, Marius," she said, rising purposefully from the stool before her dressing-table mirror. "You must be anxious to be on your way."

"Must I?" he answered meekly. "I did wish to speak with you, Henry, but it can wait until later if you are in such a dreadful hurry."

"I must check the schoolroom," she declared firmly, and make sure that Oscar is securely in his cage again. I would not want him escaping anymore."

"No, indeed," he agreed. "I might have trouble finding a chef in England willing to work here if that worthy bird finds his way to the kitchen and asks them all what the stink is."

She giggled. "The poor man was furious, was he not? I must go up, Marius."

"Yes, I see you must," he replied. "And I see that I must be going. I shall talk with you later, my love."

Henry really did go up to the schoolroom, mainly to ensure that Miss Manford and the twins were safely occupied. They were, and Oscar, in disgrace, was reposing fairly quietly beneath his pink blanket.

Cranshawe arrived promptly. Henry was standing tensely, her back to the fireplace, when the butler announced him. He strode across the room to her, looking handsome and purposeful, she noted. He took her cold hand in his and raised it to his lips.

"Good morning, Henry," he greeted her, his charming smile muted by a warm sympathy. "I came as soon as I could, for I knew you would be anxious to be done with this business and to set your brother's mind at ease."

"You are very good, Oliver," she said, turning quite pale. "I shall repay the money as soon as I " may. But I do not know how I shall ever repay, your kindness.

"Do not give it a moment's thought, my dear," he said with tender solicitation. "Here, take this packet and let us not mention the matter again." He removed a long package from inside his coat and handed it to her.

Henry took it with obvious embarrassment and reluctance.

"Now," he said, clasping his hands behind him and smiling much more dazzlingly at her, "may I beg the honor of a waltz with you at the Sefton ball tonight, Henry? It will be a feather in my cap to be seen with the loveliest lady there."

"I do not like it when you say silly things like that," she said roundly. "But of course I shall dance with you. The second waltz? Felix Hendricks has already asked me for the first."

"Then I must be contented with the second," he decided, bowing gracefully.

They talked on general matters for several more minutes, but Cranshawe, always sensitive to her feelings, realized that she was uneasy with the package of money still clasped in her hand, and soon took his leave.

"Until this evening," he said, smiling warmly into her eyes and raising her hand to his lips again.

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While Henry hastened upstairs to the drawing room to write a brief note to Giles, asking him to call on her during the afternoon, Oliver Cranshawe was on his way to Suzanne Broughton's house. She received him in her dressing room, where her maid was still coaxing her piled-up hair into numerous curls and ringlets.

"You choose strange hours in which to call, Oliver," she remonstrated as he was shown into the room. "Can't you wait until a more civilized time in the afternoon?"

"I thought you would wish to hear this news immediately, Suzanne, he replied, flashing her a wide smile in the mirror. "The butterfly has been netted, I believe."

Her eyes stilled on his reflected image. "Is that so?" she said. "Miriam, you may leave. That will be all for now." She waited until her maid had left the room and closed the door behind her before swiveling on the stool and facing her visitor. "Well, Oliver?"

He smiled and sank gracefully into a chair. "The little duchess is fortunate enough to have a brother who likes to gamble and who does not have the means with which to do it," he began.

She smiled slowly. "Fortunate for whom, Oliver? And you, out of the goodness of your heart, have prevented his ruin, I suppose?"

"Of course." He bowed. "How could I bear to see her

Grace, the freckle-nosed duchess, in distress? You know that I am all heart, Suzanne." He proceeded to tell her all that had transpired between Henry and him in the last day.

Her smile had broadened by the time he finished. "So now you have the silly little chit in your power! What do you mean to do with her, pray?"

He flashed his teeth at her. "It is not for you to know, Suzanne," he said, "but you can rest assured that I shall have some personal amusement while getting my revenge on Eversleigh."

I almost feel sorry for the girl," Suzanne commented with a trilling laugh.

"Do not," he said. "Believe me, Suzanne, I know how to pleasure a woman. In all likelihood, she will not even realize that she is being deliberately ruined. It would be double revenge, would it not, if the little Henrietta were to fall in love with me in earnest?" There was something cold, almost cruel in the smile with which he regarded Suzanne.

"You are the devil, Oliver!" his companion replied. "I do hope that Marius suffers-before he returns to me. Perhaps I shall reject him. That would be most satisfying." She turned her back to examine herself in the mirror.

Cranshawe rose to his feet. "It would be in your own interest, my dear, to be seen with Marius as often as possible in the near future, especially when his wife is visible."

She smiled. "Poison in the ear, Oliver?"

"You may depend upon it!" he assured her. "In fact, I have already begun."

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Henry ended up spending the whole afternoon with Giles. He was overjoyed when she handed him the money with which to pay off his debts, once he had ascertained to his own satisfaction that she had had no trouble raising the money and that she had not had to apply to Eversleigh for it. He swore to her that his gambling days were at an end, that he had finally learned his lesson. As a celebration, brother and sister decided on an excursion to Kew Gardens. They took the twins with them.

As a result, it was late in the day before Eversleigh held the promised meeting with his wife. She had dressed early for dinner and had come down to join him in the drawing room.

"Some ratafia, my love?" he asked, resting his own glass on the mantel and crossing to the sideboard.

"Ratafia, pooh!" she said. "That is for girls. I shall have some Madeira, please, Marius."

"Yes," he said dryly. "I always forget that it is the greatest insult to treat you like a girl, Henry." He handed her a glass of Madeira.

Henry sipped it and found herself admiring her husband's appearance. He was dressed for Lady Sefton's ball in black satin knee breeches and coat, silver waistcoat, and sparkling white linen, lace covering his hands to the knuckles, his neckcloth arranged in an elaborate shower of folds. A diamond pin in the neckcloth and the inevitable quizzing glass on its black riband were his only adornments. His dark hair was brushed forward into waves around his face. His blue eyes regarded her steadily from beneath lowered lids. Henry started and blushed. 'She had caught herself out in the act of wondering how her hands and breasts would feel against the linen if she were to step forward and push aside his coat. What an extraordinary thought!

"Will I pass muster, Henry?" he asked, his eyes taking on their amused gleam.

"Oh, assuredly so," she said. "You will be the handsomest man at the ball, as always, Marius."

His eyebrows rose. "Splendid!" he said: "I would respond in kind, my love, if I did not know that you would call me absurd or silly or-what was it that one time?-stupid!"

"Oh!" she retorted. "It is unkind of you to remember that. "

"Come and sit down, Henry," Eversleigh said, growing noticeably more serious and directing her to a sofa. He sat beside her. "I wish to talk to you."

"I perceive it is about my being with Oliver in the park yesterday," Henry said tightly, having decided to take the offensive.

He regarded her gravely. "Why have you chosen to disregard' my wishes, Henry?" he asked.

"I will not be ruled," she cried passionately. "I know that when I married you I became your property, Marius. I know that you have all the powers of a husband over me. But you cannot expect me to like it or to give in meekly to a situation of which I do not approve."

"Strong words, my love!" he said calmly. "Have I given you cause to consider me a tyrant? Do I curtail your freedom? Do I beat you?"

"No," she replied, her agitation by no means cooled. "You have been very good to me, except in this one thing. You asked something of me and gave me no reason except that it was your wish. And now you are bringing me to task because I have not obeyed. And I would guess that your next move will be to command me not to be sociable to Oliver and to threaten me with dire consequences if I continue to disobey. Well, I will not do it, Marius." She rose to her feet and glared defiantly down at him. "Oliver has been kind to me, and I like him, and there is nothing improper in our meetings. I shall have to take the consequences of going against your commands. But turn away from his friendship I will not." -

"Will you not, my love?" he asked softly. He sat and gazed steadily up at her for a long while until she sat down again, feeling rather foolish at having allowed her temper to flare. Eversleigh continued to sit silently for a few minutes. Finally, he took her hand in one of his and with his other hand stroked along each finger.

"It was, of course, wrong of me to require anything of you without giving a good reason, he said at last. "You must remember, my love, that I am new in the role of husband. Since I lost my parents in a carriage accident when I was sixteen years of age, I have been accustomed to giving orders and to having them unquestioningly obeyed. And then I, er, bumped into you, or was it the other way around?".

Henry said nothing. She kept her eyes on his hand, which held hers, and on his slim, well-manicured fingers playing lightly with hers.

"Will you stay away from Oliver Cranshawe if I can convince you that it is for your own safety?" Eversleigh continued. Henry glanced up into his face, startled. "Believe me, I am not being melodramatic," he assured her.

"I cannot say until I hear what you have to say," Henry said. "I cannot think that anything you say will convince me. Oliver has proved kind to me."

"You are incurably honest, are you not, Henry?" Eversleigh said, turning her hand and clasping it in his. I see that I must tell you what I swore not to tell anyone, because I have no proof for my suspicions."

Henry looked inquiringly into his face.

"I have never told you anything of my family, have I, Henry?" he began.

"I assumed you had none," she replied.

"And neither have I-now," he said. "Oliver is my closest relative on my father's, side. He is the son of my father's sister. His parents died when he was a child. He spent most of his youthful years with us at Everglades. The three of us were very close Oliver, my brother, Stephen, and I."

"You have a brother, Marius?"

"Had, my love. We did everything together. We frequently had friendly arguments about the succession. Oliver pretended to be angry because he was third in line to the dukedom, behind me and Stephen-although his mother had been older than my father. At least, it seemed to be a joke, though after the untimely death of Mama and Papa and I succeeded to the title, I often had the uneasy feeling that Oliver was perhaps seriously bitter."

"But that is absurd," Henry said. "He seems not to mind at all."

Eversleigh took her empty glass, crossed to the sideboard, and poured them each a second drink. When he sat down again, it was in a chair a little removed from hers.

"I went to university and then spent several months of each year in London," he continued. "Finally I joined… a certain club. You would consider it absurd, my love, and you would be quite right. It was youthful folly. The only condition for membership was that each candidate swear to remain single for the rest of his life."

Henry stared. "Then how came you to marry me?" she asked.

"That is another matter entirely," he replied. "Oliver and Stephen, as young men will, took the matter very seriously when I announced my membership to them. And I remember jokingly pointing out that only Stephen stood between Oliver and an almost-certain future claim to the dukedom. Stephen was only nineteen at the time, but he fancied himself in love with a neighbor's daughter. He seemed in hourly expectation of making a declaration."

He paused and took a long swallow of his drink.

"And?" Henry prompted.

"And he died in a riding accident before he could make that declaration," Eversleigh said harshly. "We were on a hunt. His saddle strap broke when he was jumping a fence. He broke his neck."

Henry found that she was having difficulty breathing. "You suspect that Oliver had something to do with it?" she almost whispered.

"Oh, he was nowhere near when it happened," he said. "The saddle strap was badly worn through."

"It was an accident, then?"

"Stephen was a very keen and careful horseman. He would let no one tend his horse or his gear for him. A knife could have been used carefully enough to give the impression of fraying."

"But you believe Oliver did it?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"I have no proof and I have never confronted him with my suspicions," he said.

"What has all this to do with me, Marius?" she whispered.

"You are my wife," he said. "My sons will be born from your body."

"Oh, no!" she cried, leaping to her feet. "You are wrong, Marius. I know Oliver. He is not like that. He is kind and caring and he is hurt by your coldness to him. You have allowed grief for your brother to poison your mind. It is not true. You must see that."

He looked at her, a twisted smile on his face. "Keep him at a distance, Henry," he said. "Your safety matters to me.

"But you are wrong," she insisted. "Oh, somehow I shall prove it and bring you two together again."

"Then nothing I have said has made any difference?" he asked, his eyelids masking the expression in his eyes.

Henry hesitated. She was suddenly plagued by a thoroughly novel desire to rush across to where he still sat in his chair, and cradle his head against her breast. She had never seen him vulnerable, had never even dreamed that he had any weakness. At the same time, she could not agree to humor him by rejecting Oliver, especially after the transaction of that morning.

"You are wrong," she said, I know you are. I have promised a dance to your cousin tonight and it would be ill-mannered to refuse him now. I cannot turn aside his friendship, Marius, but I will promise to speak with him only in public places, where there are plenty of onlookers. Will that relieve your mind?"

"You will do what you will, Henry," he said, shrugging, and I will do what I must. Come, let us go in to dinner. The chef will be resigning in good earnest if we keep him waiting any longer."

He rose from his chair and extended his arm to lead her out.