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  ‘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 Holbo
rn!’

  ‘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.