It had not been from any fixed design that the Honourable Ferdinand had spent the night on the sofa in his friend’s lodging. An evening whiled away at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, had engendered in him an affection for Mr Ringwood that led him to accompany this gentleman back to Stratton Street, in preference to directing his erratic footsteps in the direction of the parental home in Cavendish Square. Whether from a natural disinclination to proceed farther on his way, or from a hazy belief that he had reached his proper destination, he had entered the house, arm in arm with his friend, ambled towards the sofa, and stretched himself out upon it, wishing Mr Ringwood — for he was the soul of politeness — a very good night. Mr Ringwood, always a thoughtful host, had spread a carriage rug over his willowy form, and had sent in his man to remove his boots. As an afterthought, he had himself taken a nightcap in to his guest, and had fitted it tenderly on to his head.

Since neither gentleman was of a loquacious disposition, and both were suffering in some slight degree from the aftermath of a convivial evening, few words were exchanged over the breakfast table. Mr Ringwood brooded gloomily over the racing news in the morning’s paper, and Mr Fakenham sat with his clouded gaze fixed on nothing in particular. The sound of a vehicle approaching at a smart pace up the street awoke no interest in either mind, but when it drew up outside the house, and a brisk knocking almost immediately fell upon the door, Mr Fakenham palpably winced, and Mr Ringwood closed his eyes with the air of one suffering exquisite discomfort. He opened them again a moment later, for an impatient footstep sounded in the passage, and the door burst open to admit Lord Sheringham, who came briskly in with all the objectionable appearance of one who had not only gone sober to bed, but had also risen betimes.

“Gil, I want a word with you!” he announced, tossing his hat and gloves on to a chair. “Hallo, Ferdy!”

“It’s Sherry,” Mr Fakenham somewhat unnecessarily informed his host.

“Yes, it’s Sherry,” agreed Mr Ringwood, staring fixedly at the Viscount. “Thought you was in the country.”

“So did I,” confessed Ferdy. He looked at his cousin, and, apparently feeling that something more was required of him, asked with friendly interest: “You back, Sherry?”

“Well, good God, you can see I am, can’t you?” retorted his lordship. “What the deuce are you doing here at this hour, and in that devilish dressing-gown?”

“Spent the evening at the Daffy Club,” explained Ferdy simply.

“Oh, castaway again, were you? Damme if ever I saw such a fellow!” said Sherry, hunting on the sideboard for a clean tankard, and pouring himself out a liberal libation of ale. He drew up a chair, pushing various trifles which reposed on it on to the floor, and sat down. “Gil, you’re a knowing one: I want your help!”

Mr Ringwood was so much moved by this unexpected tribute that he blushed, and dropped the Morning Chronicle. “Anything in my power, Sherry! Know you’ve only to give it a name!” he said. A disturbing thought occurred to him; he added mistrustfully: “As long as it isn’t to carry a message to George!”

“Carry a message to George?” repeated Sherry. “Why the deuce should I want a message carried to George?”

“Well, if it isn’t, it don’t matter. For I won’t do it, Sherry, and it’s no use asking me to.”

Mr Fakenham shook his head portentously. “Taken one of his pets,” he said. “Came smash up to me in Boodles yesterday, asking where you was. If I’d had my wits about me I’d have said you’d gone off to Leicestershire. Deuced sorry, Sherry! Never at my best before noon!”

“Oh hang George!” said Sherry. “He needn’t think he’s going to blow a hole through me, because he ain’t.”

“Seemed very set on it,” said Mr Fakenham doubtfully.

“Tell him to take a damper! That’s not what I came about. Gil, where does a fellow get hold of a special licence?”

The effect of this question was to cast his lordship’s two cronies into stunned silence. Mr Fakenham’s rather prominent eyes goggled alarmingly at his cousin; Mr Ringwood’s jaw visibly dropped.

“Now what’s the matter?” demanded Sherry. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a special licence! Of course you have!”

Mr Ringwood swallowed once or twice. “You don’t mean a marriage licence, do you, Sherry?”

“Yes, I do. What else should I mean? Thing you have to have if you want to get married in a hurry.”

“Sherry, she’s never accepted you?” gasped Mr Ringwood, his brain tottering.

“She?” said the Viscount, frowning at him. “Oh, the Incomparable! Oh, lord, no! Wouldn’t look at me! It’s not she.”

“Good God!” said Mr Ringwood, relaxing. “I wish you will not burst in on a fellow with a shock like that, Sherry, dear old boy! Gave me such a turn — ! Who wants this special licence?”

“I do. Don’t I keep on telling you so? Seems to me you must have shot the cat about as badly as Ferdy last night!”

Mr Ringwood stared at him, and then, as though mutely seeking guidance, at Mr Fakenham.

“But you said she wouldn’t look at you!” said Mr Fakenham. “Heard you distinctly. If she won’t look at you, no sense in a special licence. No sense in it either way. Banns: that’s what you want.”

“No, I don’t,” replied Sherry. “Banns won’t do for me at all. I must have a licence.”

“Much cheaper to have banns,” argued Mr Fakenham. “Where’s the use in laying out your blunt on a licence? Stupid things: much better stick to banns!”

“You’re a fool, Ferdy,” said his lordship, not mincing matters. “I’m getting married today, and I can’t do that without a licence.”

“Sherry, it’s you who must have shot the cat!” exclaimed Mr Ringwood, with a touch of severity. “How can you be married today, when you say she wouldn’t look at you?”

“Lord, can’t you think of any other female than Isabella Milborne?” demanded Sherry. “I’m going to marry someone else, of course!”

Mr Ringwood blinked at him. “Someone else?” he said incredulously.

Mr Fakenham, having thought it over, pronounced: “Oh! Someone else. No reason why he shouldn’t do that, Gil.”

“I don’t say he can’t do it,” replied Mr Ringwood. “What I say is that it sounds to me like a hum. He went off to Kent to offer for Isabella, didn’t he? Very well, then! Now he walks in here and says he’s going to marry someone else. Well, what I mean is, it’s absurd! No other word for it: absurd!”

“You’re right!” said Ferdy, forcibly struck by this presentation of the case. “He’s bamming again. You shouldn’t do it, Sherry. Not at this hour of the morning!”

“Confound you both, I’m in earnest!” Sherry said, setting his tankard down with a crash which made Ferdy jump like a startled deer. “I’m going to marry a girl I’ve known all my life! Damme, I must marry someone! I shan’t have a feather to fly with if I don’t.”

“Who is she?” asked Mr Ringwood. “You’ve never offered for the Stowe girl, Sherry, dear old boy? Not the rabbity-faced one?”

“No, of course I haven’t. You don’t know her: never been to London in her life! I ran off with her yesterday.”

“But, Sherry!” expostulated Mr Ringwood, a good deal shaken. “No, really, dear boy! You can’t do that sort of thing!” —

“Well, I’ve done it,” replied the Viscount, a shade sulkily.

Mr Fakenham made a helpful suggestion. “You want Gretna Green, Sherry. Post-chaise-and-four.”

“Good God, no! It’s bad enough without that!”

“You can get married in the Fleet,” offered Mr Fakenham.

The Viscount arose in his wrath. “I tell you it isn’t that kind of an affair at all! I’m going to be married in a church, all right and tight, and I want a special licence!”

Mr Fakenham begged pardon. Mr Ringwood gave a slight cough. “Sherry, old boy — don’t want to pry into your affairs — wouldn’t offend you for the world! — You ain’t thinking of marrying the lodge-keeper’s daughter, or anything of that kind?”

“No, no! She’s a Wantage — some sort of a cousin, but they don’t own her. Father went through all his blunt, and kicked up a dust of some kind. Before my time. The point is, she’s as well born as you are. Mrs Bagshot brought her up: she’s another of her cousins. You must know the Bagshots!”

Mr Fakenham was suddenly roused to animation. “If she’s a Bagshot, Sherry, I wouldn’t marry her! Now there’s a horrible thing! Do you know that woman has brought out a third one? For anything we know she’s got a string of ’em — and each one worse than the last! Cassandra was bad enough, but have you seen the new one? Tallow-faced girl called Sophy?”

“Lord, yes, I’ve known the Bagshots all my life! Hero’s not like them, I give you my word!”

“Who?” asked Ferdy, his attention arrested.

“Hero. Girl I’m going to marry.”

Ferdy was puzzled. “What do you call her Hero for?”

“It’s her name,” replied Sherry impatiently. “I know it’s a silly name, but damme, it ain’t as silly as Eudora! Besides, I call her Kitten, so what’s the odds?”

“Sherry, where is this girl?” asked Mr Ringwood.

“She’s at Grillon’s. Couldn’t think of anywhere else to take her. Told ’em she was on her way to school, and her abigail broke her leg getting down from the chaise. Best I could think of.”

“Did she, though?” said Ferdy, interested. “Dare say she didn’t wait for the steps to be let down. I had an aunt — well, you remember her, Sherry! Old Aunt Charlotte, the one who — ”

“For God’s sake, Ferdy, will you go and put your head under the pump?” cried the exasperated Viscount. “There wasn’t any abigail!”

“But you said — ”