Fanny could almost have boxed her ears.

But when Serena at last broke the wafer, and spread open the single sheet, the Marquis’s message proved to be a disappointment. Fanny watched Serena read it, herself quite breathless with anxiety, and could not forbear saying eagerly: “Well? What does he say? He does not forbid it?”

“My dear, how should he? He makes no comment upon it, merely that he will be at Claycross next week, and will visit Bath on Thursday, for one night, to discuss with me the winding up of the Trust. We will invite him to dine here, and Hector too.”

“But is that all he has to say?” demanded Fanny incredulously.

“You don’t know his style of letter-writing! This is a typical example of it. Oh, he thanks me for my felicitations, of course, and says that it will be proper for him to make the acquaintance of Major Kirkby before giving his formal consent to my marriage.”

“Then at least he doesn’t mean to be disagreeable about it!” said Fanny, considerably relieved.

But when, on the following Thursday, Rotherham was ushered into the drawing-room, this comfortable conviction left her. He looked to be in anything but a complaisant mood. The sardonic lines about his mouth were marked, and a frown drew his black brows into a bar across his face. He was dressed with propriety, in an evening coat and knee-breeches, but, as usual, there was a hint of carelessness about his appearance, as though the pattern of his waistcoat or the set of his neckcloth was a matter of indifference to him. He greeted her un-smilingly, and turned to meet Serena.

She had chosen to dignify the occasion by arraying herself in a gown which had been made for her by Bath’s leading modiste, and never before worn. It was a striking creation, of black figured lace over a robe of white satin, the bodice cut low, and the train long. With it she wore her diamond earrings, and the triple necklace of pearls her father had given her at her coming-of-age. She looked magnificent, but the comment she evoked from the Marquis was scarcely flattering. “Good God, Serena!” he said, as he briefly shook her hand. “Setting up as a magpie?”

“Just so! I collect it doesn’t find favour with you?” she retorted, a spark in her eye.

He shrugged. “I know nothing of such matters.”

“No one, my dear Rotherham, having once clapped eyes on you, could doubt that!”

With nervous haste, Fanny interrupted this promising start to one of the interchanges she dreaded, “Lord Rotherham, I must introduce Major Kirkby to you!”

He turned to confront the Major, whom he had not previously seemed to notice. His hard eyes surveyed him unrecognizingly. He put out his hand, saying curtly: “How do you do?”

Never, thought Fanny, could two men have formed a stronger contrast to each other! They might have served as models for Apollo and Vulcan, the one so tall and graceful, classically featured, and golden-haired, the other swarthy and harsh-faced, with massive shoulders, his whole person suggesting power rather than grace. In looks, in deportment, in manners there could be no comparison: the Major far outshone the Marquis.

“We have met before, sir,” the Major said.

“Have we?” said Rotherham, the bar of his brows lifting slightly. “I’ve no recollection of it. When, and where?”

“Upon more than one occasion!” replied the Major, steadily meeting that hard stare. “In London—seven years ago!”

“Indeed? If it is seven years since we met, I must hold that to be a sufficient excuse for having forgotten the circumstance. Did you form one of Serena’s court?”

“Yes. I did,” said the Major.

“Ah, no wonder, then! I never disintegrated the mass into its component parts.”

This time it was Serena who intervened. “I informed you, Rotherham, that the attachment between us was of long-standing date.”

“Certainly you did, but you can hardly have expected me to have known that it was of such long-standing date as that. I had, on the contrary, every reason to suppose otherwise.”

Serena flushed vividly; the Major held his lips firmly compressed over hard-clenched teeth; Fanny flung herself once more into the breach. “I have not felicitated you yet, Lord Rotherham, upon your engagement. I hope you left Miss Laleham well?”

“Well, and in great beauty,” he replied. “You remind me that she desired me to convey all sorts of messages to you both. Also that I stand in your debt.”

“In my debt?” she repeated doubtfully.

“So I must think. I owe my first introduction to Miss Laleham to you, and consider myself much obliged to you.”

She could not bring herself to say more than: “I wish you both very happy.”

“Thank you! You are a notable matchmaker. Lady Spenborough: accept my compliments!”

She had never been more thankful to hear dinner announced.

While the servants were in the room, only indifferent subjects were discussed. It was second nature to Serena to promote conversation, and to set a party going on the right lines. No matter how vexed she might be, she could not fail in her duties as a hostess. Fanny, seated opposite to her, nervous and oppressed, wondered and admired, and did her best to appear at ease. She had never yet been so in Rotherham’s presence, however. At his most mellow, he made her feel stupid; when he sparred with Serena for an opening, she felt quite sick with apprehension. The Major saw it, and, chancing to meet her eye, smiled reassuringly at her, and took the earliest opportunity that offered of sliding out of a discussion of the restored King of Spain’s despotic conduct, and turned to ask her quietly if she had succeeded in her search for a birthday present likely to appeal to the taste of her youngest sister. She responded gratefully, feeling herself protected; and Serena, seeing her happily rengaged in abusing the Bath shops, and describing her hunt for a certain type of work-box, was content to let drop the subject of Spain, which she had chosen because it was one on which the Major could speak with authority. Rotherham sat for a moment, listening to Fanny but surveying the Major from under his frowning brows; then he turned his head towards Serena, and said: “I imagine Lady Theresa will have told you of Buckingham’s duel with Sir Thomas Hardy? An odd business! The cause is said to be some offensive letters written to and about Lady Hardy. Anonymous, of course, but Hardy held Buckingham to be the author.”

“Persuaded by her ladyship! Of that I am in no doubt! I don’t credit a word of it! Does anyone?”

“Only the inveterate scandalmongers. The character of a gentleman protects Buckingham, or should.”

“I think so indeed! But tell me, Ivo! how does the antiquated courtship progress? My aunt wrote of having seen their Senilities flirting away at some party or other!”

He replied, with a caustic comment which made her burst out laughing; and in another moment they were in the thick of the sort of conversation Fanny had hoped might be averted. Rotherham seemed to have recovered from his ill-humour: he was regaling Serena with a salted anecdote. Names and nicknames were tossed to and fro; it was Rotherham now who had taken charge of the conversation, Fanny thought, and once again she was labouring to keep pace with it. There was something about the Duke of Devonshire dining at Carlton House, and sitting between the Chancellor and Lord Caithness: what was there in that to make Serena exclaim? Ponsonby too idle, Tierney too unwell, Lord George Cavendish too insolent for leadership: what leadership?

“I thought they had made no way this session!” Serena said.

“The reverse! Brougham threw the cat among the pigeons, of course. By the by, Croker came out admirably over the attack on the Navy Estimates: he was offered a Privy Councillor’s office as a result, but declined it.”

“Are you interested in politics, Major Kirkby?” said Fanny despairingly.

“Not in the least!” he replied, in cheerful accents.

“For shame, Hector!” Serena rallied him.

He smiled at her, but shook his head. “You will have to instruct me!”

“You have been interested in more important matters, Major,” said Rotherham, leaning back in his chair, the fingers of one hand crooked-round the stem of his wineglass.

“I don’t know that. Certainly politics have not come in my way yet.”

“You must bring him in, Serena. The Party needs new blood.”

“Not I!” she returned lightly. “How odious it would be of me to try to push him into what he does not care for!”

“You will do it, nevertheless.”

“Do you care to wager on that chance?”

“It would be robbing you. You will never be able to keep your talents buried.” He raised his glass to his lips, and over it looked at the Major. “Serena was made to be a political hostess, you know. Can you subdue her? I doubt it.”

“She knows I would never try to do so.”

“Good God!” said Rotherham. “I hope you are not serious! The picture you conjure up is quite horrifying, believe me!”

“And I hope that Hector knows that you arc talking nonsense!” Serena said, stretching out her hand to the Major, and bestowing her most brilliant smile upon him.

He took the hand, and kissed it. “Of course I do! And you know that whatever you wish me to do I shall like to do!” he said laughingly.

Rotherham sipped his wine, watching this by-play with unexpected approval in his face. The second course had come to an end, and, in obedience to a sign from Serena, the servants had left the room. Fanny picked up her fan, but before she could rise, Serena said: “Have I your consent and approval, Ivo?”

“Certainly—unless I discover that the Major has a wife in Spain, or some other such trifling impediment. When do you propose to be married?”