t he answered
both with a shrug. The Lady Barbara was even more tiresome than he had
feared. He would have to teach her that snapping eyes and quarrelsome
speech were out of place in a _mariage de convenance_ such as they
were making. Doubtless he had failed to please her in some way. How he
knew not. But how could he please a lady to whom he was quite
indifferent, who was quite indifferent to him, and yet a lady to whom
he was to be married in less than a fortnight, a whole day less than a
fortnight. Lord Farquhart sighed far more deeply than was courteous to
the lady.

"If I can do aught to please you, Barbara, during your stay----" he
began, with perfunctory deference, but she interrupted him hotly.

"Barbara!" she had been fuming inwardly. And only the night before it
had been "Babs" and "sweetheart" and "sweet cousin"! Her wrath rose
quite beyond control and her voice broke forth impetuously.

"I beg of you not to give me your time before it is necessary, my Lord
Farquhart. And--and I beg you will excuse me now. I go to-night to
Mistress Barry's ball, and I--I--would rest after last night's
fatigues."

She flounced from the room without further leave-taking, and as she
fled on to her own chamber her anger escaped its bounds.

"He talks to me of jests," she cried, with angry vehemence. "A sorry
jest he'll find it, on my word. _Aie!_ I hate his insolent
indifference. One would think I was a simple country fool to hear him
talk. He--he--when I can have him hung just when it suits my good
convenience! I'll not marry him at all! Ay, but I will, though. I'll
make it worse for him by marrying him. And then I'll show him! Just
wait, my lord, until I'm Lady Farquhart and you'll dance to a
different tune, I'm thinking. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! I suppose he
goes now to his Sylvia, or--or, perchance, out onto the road again."
The Lady Barbara's tantrum had carried her into her own room and she
had slammed the door. Now she found herself stopped by the opposite
wall, and suddenly her tone changed. It grew quite soft, almost
tender. "I wonder if his Sylvia is fairer than I am," she said. "I
wonder if he might not come to look upon me as worthy of something
more than that sidewise glance."

As for Lord Farquhart, left alone in the boudoir, he was still
indifferent and still somewhat insolent, for, as he sauntered out from
the room, he muttered:

"May the devil take all women save the one you happen to be in love
with