“I am afraid you misled him a little, dearest, and that the blame rests on my shoulders,” said Abby apologetically. “I thought you knew—at least, that’s what I should have supposed, had I thought about it all. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t. My excuse is that we have never discussed money-matters, have we? You won’t come into possession of your fortune until you are five-and-twenty.”

Fanny looked very much taken aback, and exclaimed heatedly: “You don’t mean it! Well, of all the shabby things to do—! Why, already I need more than my uncle gives me, and I shall need much more when I go to London for my come-out!”

“Of course you will!” agreed Abby, considerably heartened by this naive speech. “Your uncle knows that—indeed, we had some discussion about it when I was in London. You won’t find him ungenerous, I promise you. He wishes you to present what he calls a creditable appearance!”

“Not ungenerous if I am meek and obedient! But if I don’t submit to his tyranny—what then?”

“Really, Fanny!” Abby protested. “What cause have you ever had to talk of his tyranny?”

“None—yet! But if he tries to part me from Stacy it will be tyranny! And I’ll tell you this, Abby!—I don’t care a rush for my hateful fortune, or even if my uncle cuts off my allowance, and Stacy won’t care either! No, and I don’t care if I don’t go to London—not a bit!”

“I wish you will not talk in that skimble-skamble style!” said Abby, with asperity. “Anyone would take you for a perfect zero! Do you, in all seriousness, expect your uncle to allow you to be married out of the schoolroom?”

“He would, if Stacy were wealthy, and were an Earl, or some such thing!” said Fanny, on an angry sob.

“Oh, no, he would not!” replied Abby. “He would have me to reckon with! Do, for heaven’s sake, try for a little common-sense, child! You have tumbled into love, and you believe it to be a lasting attachment—”

“I know it is!” Fanny declared passionately.

“Very well! It may be as you say, and if it should prove to be so you may rest assured of my support. Young Calverleigh has told me that he means to become worthy of you, and if he succeeds in reforming his way of life—”

“He has done so!”

“In that case, I see no reason at all for you to fall into affliction. Neither your uncle nor I are monsters of cruelty, and if, when you have seen a little of the world, you still prefer Calverleigh to all the other men you will meet, and he shows himself to be equally constant, we shall not oppose the marriage.”

“What, wait for nearly a whole year?” cried Fanny, aghast. “ Oh, no, no, no! If you had ever been in love you could not be so heartless!”

“I see nothing very heartless in wishing you to enjoy at least one London season before you embark on eight years of poverty,” said Abby dryly.

“That isn’t what you wish!” Fanny said, her voice trembling. “You wish to take me away from my beloved Stacy! I know just how it would be if I consented! You, and my Aunt Mary, would take good care n-never to let me so m-much as see him! I daresay you think I should soon forget him, but I shan’t! Oh, Abby, Abby, I thought you loved me!”

“You know very well that I do.”

But Fanny, swallowing her tears, shook her head, and rode on in silence.

Meanwhile, Stacy, having begged for the honour of entertaining his uncle to dinner that evening, was taking great pains to order such dishes and wines as would be most likely to put Mr Miles Calverleigh in a mellow mood. Having scrutinized the bill of fare, and bored the waiter by changing his mind three times, he decided at last in favour of a soup, to be removed with a loin of veal, and followed by partridges, accompanied by broiled mushrooms and French beans, with a dressed crab, fat livers in cases, and some artichoke bottoms in sauce, as side-dishes. This elegant repast was served in his private parlour, and although Miles, a sparing eater, could not have been said to do full justice to it, toying with the veal, and refusing the crab and the livers, he ate two partridges, and raised no demur at having his glass constantly refilled.

Until the covers were removed, and a bottle of brandy set upon the table, Stacy confined his conversation to everyday chit-chat, which consisted largely of anecdotes of ton, and the latest titbits of London scandal, but when the waiter left the parlour Miles Calverleigh, pushing his chair back, and stretching his legs out before him, one ankle crossed over the other, yawned, and said: “Cut line, nevvy! You didn’t invite me here to regale me with on-dits. What do you want of me?”

“Good God, sir, nothing! Why, what should I want?”

“I’ve no idea. Or what you imagine I could—or would—do for you.”

This was not encouraging, but Stacy persevered. “Don’t you feel that we should get to know one another, sir?”

“No, why?”

Stacy blinked at him. “Well—our relationship!”

“Don’t give it a thought! Relations are a dead bore.”

“Not you, sir!” said Stacy, with his ready laugh. “Indeed, far from it! I can’t tell you how many times in the past week I’ve heard your praises sung!”

“Well, don’t try. Are you hopeful of borrowing money from me?”

“Much good that would do me! I daresay your pockets are as much to let as mine!” Stacy said, tossing off the brandy in his glass, and stretching out his hand for the bottle.

Miles, who was warming his own glass in his cupped hands, said: “As I don’t know to what extent your pockets are to—”

He was interrupted. “Wholly!” Stacy said, with yet another laugh, this time one devoid of mirth. “I’m all to pieces!” He waited for a moment, but as he won no other response than a polite look of enquiry from his unfeeling relative continued jerkily: “The devil’s been in the cards! Yes, and in the bones too! I’ve only to rattle them and they fall crabs! If I can’t contrive to fly a kite, I shall be gutted!”

Mr Miles Calverleigh, having warmed his glass to his satisfaction, and savoured the aroma of the brandy, sipped it delicately. “I daresay you’ll come about,” he said.

Anger rose in Stacy, and, with it, his colour. “Not if that curst aunt of Fanny’s has anything to say to it! And now she tells me that Fanny don’t come of full age until she’s five-and-twenty!”

“You will have to look for another kite to fly, won’t you?”

Stacy disposed of his second glass of brandy. “Do you suppose I haven’t done so? Damn it, I thought it was all hollow! But when a man’s luck is out it’s ames-ace with him, whatever he sets his hand to! I’ve been punting on tick for weeks past—hardly dare show my face in town!”

“I should go abroad, if I were you.”

“Pray, what should I subsist on?” snapped Stacy.

“Oh, on your wits!” said Miles cheerfully.

“I collect that’s what you did!”

“Yes, of course.”

“They don’t seem to have served you very well!”

Miles laughed. “Better than an apron-string hold would have done, I promise you!”

There was just enough contempt in his voice to put Stacy, already embarking on a third glass, in a flame. He exclaimed: “I don’t know what right you have to hold up your nose, sir! It’s what you did—or tried to do—yourself!”

“Is it?” said Miles. “You seem to be remarkably well informed!”

“You as good as told me so,” Stacy muttered. “In any event, I’ve always known that you ran off with some heiress or another.”

“So I did,” agreed Miles, without the smallest sign of discomposure. “I shouldn’t recommend you to follow my example: you would do better to regard me in the light of a grim warning.”

“I don’t wish to run off with Fanny! It was never my intention, until that archwife returned to Bath to thrust a spoke in my wheel!”

“That what!”

The astonishment in his uncle’s voice recalled to Stacy’s mind his reason for having invited him to dinner, and, with an abrupt change of front, he said: “I should not abuse her! No, or blame her either, I suppose. But when one’s hopes are cut up—She has set her face against the marriage, sir!”

“Well, you certainly can’t blame her for that.”

“I have said I don’t! I’ve done my utmost to bring her about—assured her of my determination to be worthy of Fanny—all to no avail! She is unmoved! Nothing I could say had the least effect on her!”

“You can’t tell that. The chances are you made her feel damned queasy.”

“But it’s true!” Stacy declared, flushing hotly. “I’ll be a pattern-husband, I swear!”

“Hornswoggle!” said his uncle, not mincing matters.

“No, I tell you!”

“Well, don’t! What the devil’s the use of telling me that, or anything else? I’m not the girl’s guardian!”

“You could help me, if you chose to do it!”

“I doubt it”

“Yes, yes, I’m certain of it!” Stacy said eagerly, once more refilling his glass. “Miss Abigail likes you—you’re wondrous great with her! I heard how she was talking to you today, and laughing at the things you said to her! If you were to support me, plead my cause—”

“Yes, you’re a trifle disguised!” interrupted Miles.

“No such thing! I’ll have you know, sir—”

“Oh, not ape-drunk!” said Miles reassuringly. “Just about half-sprung!”

“I’ll engage to see you out, sir!”

Miles looked amused. “You’d be obliged to knock under! However, I’d as lief you made the attempt rather than talk any more balderdash! I plead your cause? What the devil gave you the notion mat I plead any causes but my own? Believe me, it’s wide of the mark!”

“You can’t be such a—such care-for-nobody as to refuse to lift as much as a finger to assist me!” said Stacy indignantly.