“No, I don’t worship you,” he said, mocking her. “I know you for what you are, you enchanting termagant! And what you are I can’t exist without! I saw him worshipping you, poor devil, and shutting his eyes to your imperfections! I pitied him, but I held him in contempt as well, because what is most admirable in you he liked least! I’ll open no gates for you, my girl! you’ll take any fence I take, and we’ll clear it neck and neck!” He felt the response in the quiver that ran through her, and laughed, and kissed her again. “You may set the country alight, if you choose, but ride rough-shod over me you will not, if we fight from cockcrow to sundown!”

“Ivo, Ivo!” she whispered, turning her face into his shoulder. She seemed to struggle with herself, and looked up at last, to say: “I cannot—I must not! It is too base—and oh, what would Papa say to me for behaving ungentlemanly! Ivo, I have been Hector’s dream!”

“It’s a dream he has awakened from, believe me!” he said dryly. “Lord, Serena, the clever fool that you are! Stop mouthing fustian to me, or I’ll shake some sense into you! Haven’t you seen what has been going on under your nose? Your calflove doesn’t want to be your husband! He is hoping to God he may become your father-in-law!”

She stared at him with knit brows; then she began to laugh. He kissed her again, heard a slight sound, and looked over her head towards the door. Major Kirkby, quietly entering the room, was standing with one hand on the door, watching them.

“I don’t beg your pardon, Kirkby,” Rotherham said. “I am reclaiming my own property.”

Serena pulled herself out of his arms, and went towards the Major, her hands held out: “Hector, forgive me! I have used you so shamefully: I think I must be the most fickle wretch alive!”

He took her hands and kissed them. “Not as fickle as I! Nor such a crass fool! My dear, I wish you happy with all my heart! You are a grander creature than any I ever dreamed of.”

She smiled. “Only I am not your dear. And you are the kindest and best of men, but not my love!”

He was still holding her hands, rather flushed, a rueful look in his eye. “There is something—I don’t know how to tell you! I must appear worse than a fool!”

“I’ve told her already,” interposed Rotherham. “I see no need to wish you happy: you will both be extremely happy!” He held out his hand, and gripped the Major’s, saying, with his derisive smile: “Do you own at last that I was right, when I told Spenborough seven years ago that you and Serena would never suit? When I met you again, in this house, I came prepared to dislike you profoundly: I ended the evening most sincerely pitying you! You are too good a man for such a termagant, Kirkby!”

“How like you—how very like you!” Serena said. Her eyes went to the door. “Fanny! Oh, foolish Fanny, why didn’t you tell me to take my claws out of Hector weeks ago? My dear, you were made for one another!”

“Oh, Serena, I feel a traitress!” Fanny said, her eyes brimming over.

“No, why should you? I’m afraid you will be shocked, my dear, but I am going to marry the odious Marquis after all!”

“Hector said it would be so,” Fanny said, sighing. “I do so much hope that you will be happy, dearest!”

“You don’t depend upon it, however, Lady Spenborough?”

She blushed rosily. “Oh, no, no! I mean, yes! Only it has always seemed to me that you held one another in positive aversion!”

“Acute of you!”

She had never known how to take his abrupt, incomprehensible remarks, and was always flurried by them. She said quickly: “I am so very glad you have made up your differences! My lord would have been so happy!” She saw Serena’s face quiver, and added at once: “Only, how very awkward it will be for you! How shall you advertise it? For you will be dreadfully roasted, you know, if you, announce your engagement for the second time!”

Serena turned laughing eyes towards Rotherham. “Fanny is perfectly right! Shall we say that the engagement between the Marquis of Rotherham and the Lady Serena Carlow has been resumed?”

“No, intolerable! I will never be engaged to you again, Serena! The advertisement which I propose to send to the Gazette will state that the marriage between the Marquis of Rotherham and the Lady Serena Carlow took place, privately, at Bath.”

Her eyes lit, but she said: “Ivo, how can I? It is not yet a year—”

“No, it is not a year, but even your Aunt Theresa will not think it improper if I add to the notice the information that we are spending our honeymoon abroad, and do not expect to be in England again until November. There will be no wedding festivities, and no bride visits. What we may choose to do while touring the Continent will offend no one.” He stretched out his hand imperatively, and she laid hers in it. His fingers closed on hers. “We will do better this time, Serena.”

“Yes,” she said, holding tightly to his hand. “We will do better, Ivo!”