“More than that. He is of the Bow-window set, I grant, but not of the Unique Four. That is composed, as you know, of only your complete Dandies—Brummell, Alvanley, Mildmay, and Pierrepoint. Worth has other interests, even more expensive.”

“So has Lord Alvanley,” she interposed.

“Very true. Lord Alvanley hunts, for instance, but he does not, I believe, aspire to be first in so many fields as Worth. You may hardly go to a race-meeting but you are sure to find Worth has a horse running, while his curricle-races, the teams he drives, are notorious.”

“It is the only thing I know of to his advantage,” Judith said. “I will admit him to be an excellent whip. But for the rest I find him a mere fop, a creature of affectations, tricked out in modish clothes, thinking snuff to be of more moment than events of real importance. He is proud, he can be insolent. There is a reserve, a lack of openness—I must not say any more: I shall put myself in a rage, and that will not do.”

He smiled. “You’ve no love for the dandies, Judith?”

“Oh, as to that—Mr. Brummell is of all people the most charming companion. Lord Alvanley too must always please. But in general, no, I do not like them. I like a man to be a man, and not a mask of fashion.”

He agreed to it, but said seriously: “I collect there is more than you have said. These faults, though you may despise them, are not enough to anger you as I think you were angered this evening, cousin.”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes smouldering again at the recollection of her interview with the Earl. Mr. Taverner laid his hand over hers, and clasped it. “Do not tell me unless you choose,” he said gently, “but believe that I only wish to serve you, to be, if I may be no more, merely your friend.”

“You are all consideration,” she said. “All kindness.” She smiled, but with a quivering lip. “Indeed, I count you very much my friend. There is no one I can open my mind to, saving Perry, and he is young, taken up with his new acquaintances, and amusements. Mrs. Scattergood is very amiable, but she is related to Worth—a circumstance I cannot forget. I have been thinking how very much alone I am. There is only Perry—but I am falling into a mood of pitying myself, which is nonsensical. While I have Perry I cannot want for protection.” She gave her head a little shake. “You see how stupid Lord Worth makes me! We cannot meet but I find myself picking a quarrel with him, and then I become as odious as he is himself. To-night in particular—he informs me, if you please, that he shall not consent to my marriage with anyone but himself while he is my guardian! It has put me in such a rage that I declare I could almost elope to Gretna Green just to spite him.”

He started. “My dear cousin!”

“Oh, I shall not, of course! Do not look so shocked!”

“Not that—certainly not that, but—I have no right to ask you—you have met someone? There is some man with whom you could contemplate—?”

“No one, upon my honour!” she said, laughing. Her eyes met his for an instant, and then fell. She coloured, became aware of her hand under his and gently drew it away. “Where can Mrs. Scattergood be gone to, I wonder?”

He rose. “I must go. It is growing late.” He paused, looking earnestly down at her. “You have Peregrine to turn to, I know. Let me say just this, that you have also a cousin who would do all in his power to serve you.”

“Thank you,” she said, almost inaudibly. She got up. “It—it is late. It was good of you to call, to bring me the book.”

He took her hand, held out to him in farewell, and kissed it. “Dear Judith!” he said.

Mrs. Scattergood, coming back into the room at that moment, looked very sharply at him, and made not the smallest attempt to persuade him into staying any longer. He took his leave of both ladies, and bowed himself out.

“You are getting to be excessively intimate with that young gentleman, my love,” observed Mrs. Scattergood.

“He is my cousin, ma’am,” replied Judith tranquilly.

“H’m, yes! I daresay he might be. I have very little notion of cousins, I can tell you. Not that I have anything against Mr. Taverner, my dear. He seems an agreeable creature. But that is how it is always! The less eligible a man is the more delightful he is bound to be! You may depend upon it.”

Judith began to put away her embroidery. “My dear ma’am, what can that signify? There is no thought of marriage between us.”

“No Bath-miss airs with me, child, I implore you!” said Mrs. Scattergood, throwing up her hands. “That is very pretty talking, to be sure, but you have something more of quickness than most girls, and you know very well, my love, that there is always a thought of marriage between a single female and a personable gentleman, if not in his mind, quite certainly in hers. Now this cousin may do very well for a young lady of no particular consequence, but you are an heiress and should be looking a great deal higher for a husband. I don’t say you must not show him the observance that is due to a relative, but you know, my dear, you do not owe him any extraordinary civility, and to let him kiss your hand and be calling you dear Judith, is the outside of enough!”

Judith turned. “Let me understand you, ma’am. How much higher must I look for a husband?”

“Oh, my dear, when a female is as wealthy as you, as high as you choose! I did think of Clarence, but there’s that horrid Marriage Act to be got over, and I daresay the Regent would never give his consent.”

“There is Mrs. Jordan to be got over too,” said Judith dryly.

“Nonsense, my love, I have it for a fact he has quite broken with her. I daresay she will keep all the children of the connection—I believe there are ten, but I might be mistaken.”

“You informed me yourself, ma’am, that the Duke was a devoted father,” said Judith.

Mrs. Scattergood sighed. “Well, and have I not said that I believe he won’t do? Though I must say, my dear, if you had the chance of becoming his wife it would be a very odd thing in you to be objecting to it merely because of a few Fitz-Clarences. But I have been thinking of it, and I am persuaded it won’t answer. We must look elsewhere.”

“Where shall we look, ma’am?” inquired Judith, with a hint of steel in her voice. “A mere commoner is too low for me, and a Royal Duke too high. I understand his Grace of Devonshire is unmarried. Shall I set my cap at him, ma’am, or should I look about me for a husband amongst—for instance—the Earls?”

Mrs. Scattergood glanced up sharply. “What do you mean, my love?”

“Would not Lord Worth make me a suitable husband?” said Miss Taverner evenly.

“Oh, my dearest child, the best!” cried Mrs. Scattergood. “It has been in my mind ever since I clapped eyes on you!”

“I thought so,” said Judith. “Perhaps that was why his lordship was so determined you should live with me?”

“Worth has not said a word to me, not one, I promise you!” replied Mrs. Scattergood, an expression of ludicrous dismay in her face.

Miss Taverner raised her brows in polite incredulity. “No, ma’am?”

“Indeed he has not! Lord, I wish I had not spoken! I had not the least notion of uttering a word, but then you spoke of earls, and it popped out before I could recollect. Now I have put you in a rage!”

Judith laughed. “No, you have not, dear ma’am. I am sure you would not try to force me into a marriage, the very thought of which is repugnant to me.”

“No,” agreed Mrs. Scattergood. “I would not, of course, but I must confess, my love, I am sorry to hear you talk of Worth like that.”

“Do not let us talk of him at all,” said Judith lightly. “I for one am going to bed.”

She went to bed, and presently to sleep, but was awakened some time after midnight by a tapping on her door. She sat up, and called out: “Who is there?”

“Are you awake? Can I come in?” demanded Peregrine’s voice.

She gave permission, wondering what disaster had befallen him. He came in carrying a branch of candles, which he set down on the table beside her bed to the imminent danger of the rose-silk curtains. He was dressed for an evening party, in satin knee-breeches, and a velvet coat, and he seemed to be suffering from suppressed excitement. Judith looked anxiously up at him. “Is anything wrong, Perry?” she asked.

“Wrong? No, how should it be? You weren’t asleep, were you? I didn’t think you had been asleep yet. It is quite early, you know.”

“Well, I am not asleep now,” she said, smiling. “Do move the candles a little, my dear! You will have me burned in my bed.”

He complied with this request, and sat himself down on the edge of the bed, hugging one knee. Judith waited patiently for him to tell her why he had come, but he seemed to have fallen into a pleasant sort of dream, and sat staring at the candle flames as though he saw a picture in them.

“Perry, have you or have you not something you wish to tell me?” demanded his sister between amusement and exasperation.

He brought his gaze round to dwell on her face. “Eh? Oh no, nothing in particular. Do you know Lady Fairford, Ju?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I do. Ought I to?”

“No—that is—I believe—I am nearly sure she is going to call on you.”

“I am very much obliged to her. Shall I like her?”

“Oh yes, excessively! She is a most agreeable woman. I was presented to her at Covent Garden tonight. I was dining with Fitz, you know, and we thought we might as well go to the play, and they were there, in a box. Fitz is a little acquainted with the family, and he took me up, and the long and the short of it was we joined them afterwards at the ball, and Lady Fairford asked very particularly after my sister, and said she had had it in mind to call on you, but from the circumstance of her having been out of London just lately—they have a place in Hertfordshire, I believe—it had not so far been in her power. But she said she should certainly come.” He gave her a fleeting glance, and began to study his finger-nails. “She may—I do not know—but she may bring her daughter,” he added, rather too off-handedly.