rive," she says. "But what is to become of you
until dinner-hour?"

"I shall accompany you." Audaciously.

"You! What! To have all London laughing at me?"

"Let them. A laugh will do _them_ good, and _you_ no harm.
How can it matter to you?"

"True. It cannot. And after all to be laughed at one must be talked
about. And to be talked about means to create a sensation. And I should
like to create a sensation before I die. Yes, Sir Penthony,"--with a
determined air,--"you shall have a seat in my carriage to-day."

"And how about to-morrow?"

"To-morrow probably some other fair lady will take pity on you. It
would be much too slow,"--mischievously--"to expect you to go driving
with your wife every day."

"I don't think I can see it in that light. Cecil,"--coming to her side,
and with a sudden though gentle boldness, taking her in his
arms,--"when are you going to forgive me and take me to your heart?"

"What is it you want, you tiresome man?" asks Cecil, with a miserable
attempt at a frown.

"Your love," replies he, kissing the weak-minded little pucker off her
forehead and the pretended pout from her lips, without this time
saying, "by your leave," or "with your leave."

"And when you have it, what then?"

"I shall be the happiest man alive."

"Then _be_ the happiest man alive," murmurs she, with tears in her
eyes, although the smile still lingers round her lips.

It is thus she gives in.

"And when," asks Stafford, half an hour later, all the retrospective
confessions and disclosures having taken some time to get
through,--"when shall I install a mistress in the capacious but
exceedingly gloomy abode my ancestors so unkindly left to me?"

"Do not even think of such a thing for ever so long. Perhaps next
summer I may----"

"Oh, nonsense! Why not say this time ten years?"

"But at present my thoughts are full of my dear Molly. Ah! when shall I
see her as happy as--as--I am?"

Here Sir Penthony, moved by a sense of duty and a knowledge of the
fitness of things, instantly kisses her again.

He has barely performed this necessary act when the redoubtable Charles
puts his head in at the door and says:

"The carriage is waiting, my lady."

"Very good," returns Lady Stafford, who, according to Charles's version
of the affair, a few hours later, is as "red as a peony." "You will
stay here, Penthony,"--murmuring his name with a grace and a sweet
hesitation quite irresistible,--"while I go and make ready