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“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.”