“Forgive me!” said Henrietta, “but have not you more to answer for than Miss Fletching, sir? It seems strangely unnatural for a father—particularly such an affectionate father as yourself!—to leave his daughter for so long without a word that she was forced to mourn him as dead!”

Mr Steane dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “If I had been dead she would have been informed of it,” he said. “It was quite unnecessary for me to write to her. I will go further: it would have been folly to have done so, for who knows but what she might have wished to leave school, and join me abroad? I was not, at that time, in a position to provide her with a settled home.”

“Oh!” said Henrietta. “Are you now in that position, sir?”

“Certainly!” he replied. “That is to say, as settled as one can ever hope to be. But of what use is it to dwell upon what might have been? I must resolutely banish the temptation to take the poor child away. I must deny myself the solace of her company. I must resign myself to loneliness. My duty is inescapable: I must see her righted in the eyes of the world!”

“Good gracious, has she ever been wronged?” Henrietta said, opening her eyes at him. “If you are talking of her having run away from her aunt, you must let me tell you that you are making a mountain out of a molehill, Mr Steane! To be sure, it was rather a hurly-burly thing to do, and might have led her into dangerous trouble; but since, as good luck would have it, Lord Desford overtook her on the road, and brought her here, no harm has come of it.”

He heaved a deep sigh, that verged on a moan, and covered his eyes with one fat hand. “Alas that it should fall to my lot to destroy your belief in Lord Desford’s integrity!”

“Oh, you won’t do that!” she said brightly. “So pray don’t fall into the dismals!”

He let his hand drop, and said, with a touch of asperity: “That may be the story Lord Desford told you, ma’am, but—”

“It is. And it is also the story Cherry told me,” interpolated Henrietta.

“Instructed, I have no doubt at all, by his lordship! It is not the story I heard from Amelia Bugle! Far from it indeed! Very far from it! She told me that although she had been unable to discover when it was that Desford first met Cherry, it was certainly before the night of the ball at her house, when one of her daughters was a witness of his secret assignation with her, and in the course of which the elopement must have been planned.”

“What nonsense!” said Henrietta contemptuously. “Elopement, indeed! I wonder you should have let yourself be bamboozled by such a ridiculous tale, sir! It’s easy enough to see why she told it, of course: she was scared that you might discover that it was her abominable treatment that drove Cherry to run away! But that is the plain truth! As for Lord Desford’s part in the business, you may think yourself very much obliged to him, for if he had not taken her up in his curricle, heaven knows what might have happened to her! I may add that as soon as he had established her in my mother’s care he left immediately to find Lord Nettlecombe! He ran him to earth at Harrowgate—and any other man would have abandoned the search when he discovered that he would be obliged to travel more than two hundred miles to reach his lordship!”

Mr Steane shook his head at her, a sad, pitying smile curling his lips. “That,” he sighed, “is the tale Desford’s young brother tried to hoax me with. I do not for a moment mean to suggest that you are trying to hoax me, Miss Silverdale, for it is plain to me that you too have been hoaxed. For how is it possible that Lord Desford—a man who has been on the town I know not how many years—should have supposed that my father would have contemplated for as much as a moment such a journey? You may not be aware that he is as scaly a snudge as was ever born, but Lord Desford must surely know it! Why, he has scarcely stirred out of Albemarle Street for years past! If he did find that his health demanded a change of air, the farthest he would have gone from London would have been Tunbridge Wells. Though I rather fancy,” he added, considering the matter, “that he would have retired to Nettlecombe Manor. Lodgings in watering-places, you know, are never to be had dog-cheap. As for the cost of travelling to Harrowgate—no, no, ma’am! That is doing it much too brown, believe me!”

“Nevertheless, he did go to Harrowgate, and is there at this moment. Perhaps his bride persuaded him to undertake the expense of the journey,” said Henrietta, with a wonderful air of innocence.

“His what?” ejaculated Mr Steane, starting upright in his chair, and staring at her very hard.

“Oh, didn’t you know that he was lately married?” she said. “Desford didn’t know either, until he was introduced to the lady. I understand she was used to be his housekeeper. Not, I fear, the pink of gentility, but I feel, don’t you, that it was very sensible of him to marry someone whom he can trust to look after him, and to manage his household exactly as he likes!”

She had introduced this new topic in the hope of diverting Mr Steane from the real object of his visit, and the gambit succeeded to admiration, though not in the way she had expected. Instead of going into a passion, he burst into a guffaw, slapping his thigh, and gasping: “By God, that’s the best joke I’ve heard in years! Caught in parson’s mousetrap, is he? Damme if I don’t write to felicitate him! That’ll sting him on the raw! Why, he cast me off for eloping with Jane Wisset, and though I don’t say she was of the first rank she wasn’t a housekeeper!” He went off into another guffaw, which ended in a wheezing cough; and as soon as he was able to fetch his breath again, invited Henrietta to describe his stepmother to him. She was unable to do this, but she did regale him with some of the things Desford had told her. He was particularly delighted by the quarrel between the newly married couple which had sprung up over the silk shawl, and again slapped his thigh, declaring that it served the old hunks right. He then said, wistfully, that he wished he could have seen his brother’s face when the news had been broken to him. He began to chuckle, but another thought occurred to him, and brought a cloud to his brow. “The worst of it is he can’t cut Jonas out of the inheritance,” he said gloomily. “Still,” he added after brooding over this reflection for a few moments, and speaking in a more hopeful tone: “I shouldn’t wonder at it if this housekeeper makes the old muckworm bleed freely, so the chances are Jonas won’t come into as big a fortune as he expected to.” He favoured Henrietta with a bland smile, and said: “One should always try to look on the bright side. It has ever been my rule. You would be astonished, I daresay, how often the worst disasters do have a brighter aspect.”

She was as much diverted as she was shocked by this simple revelation of Mr Steane’s character, and felt herself unable to do more than murmur an affirmative. Any hope that she might have entertained of Mr Steane’s forgetting his daughter’s predicament in the contemplation of his brother’s rage and chagrin were dispelled by his next words. “Well, well!” he said. “Little did I think that I should enjoy such an excellent joke today! But it will not do, Miss Silverdale! Jokes are out of place at such a time, when my breast is racked with anxiety. I accept that Lord Desford did go to Harrowgate; and I can only say that if he was such a dummy as to think he could fob my unfortunate child off on to her grandfather he has been like a woodcock, justly slain by its own treachery. Or words to that effect. My memory fails me, but I know a woodcock comes into it.”

What she might have been goaded to retort remained unspoken, for at this moment the Viscount came into the room. The thought that flashed into her mind was that he might have been designed to form a contrast to Wilfred Steane. There were fewer than twenty years between them, and it was easy to see that Steane had been a handsome man in his youth. But his good looks had been ruined by dissipation; and his figure spoke just as surely as his face of a life of indolence and over-indulgence. Nor were these faults remedied by his manner, or his dress. In both he favoured a florid style, which made him appear, in Henrietta’s critical eyes, disastrously like a demi-beau playing off the airs of an exquisite. Desford, on the other hand, was complete to a shade, she thought. He had a handsome countenance; a lithe, athletic figure; and if the plain coat of blue superfine which he wore had had a label stitched to it bearing the name of Weston it could not have proclaimed the name of its maker more surely than did its superb cut. His air was distinguished; his manners very easy, and unaffected; and while there was no suggestion of the Pink, or the Bond Street Spark, about his trim person it was generally agreed in tonnish circles that his quiet elegance was the Real thing.

He shut the door, and advanced towards Henrietta, who had exclaimed thankfully: “Desford!”

“Hetta, my love!” he responded, smiling at her, and kissing her hand. He stood holding it in a warm clasp for a minute, as he said: “Had you despaired of me? I think you must have, and I do beg your pardon! I had hoped to have been with you before this.”

She returned the pressure of his fingers, and then drew her hand away, saying playfully: “Well, at all events, you’ve arrived in time to make the acquaintance of Cherry’s father, who isn’t dead, after all! You must allow me to make you known to each other: Mr Wilfred Steane, Lord Desford!”

The Viscount turned, and raised his quizzing-glass, and through it surveyed Mr Steane, not for very long, but with daunting effect. Henrietta was forced to bite her lip quite savagely to suppress the laughter that bubbled up in her. It was so very unlike Des to do anything so odiously top-lofty! “Oh,” he said. He bowed slightly. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir.”