Arrived in Leeds, Laurence, who was unfamiliar with the town, requested her to direct him to a decent posting-house, where the whisky could be left, and the horse baited. “Then I’ll escort you to the dressmaker. It won’t do for you to be jauntering about this place alone,” he said, surveying the crowded street with disfavour.

This put Tiffany in mind of something which, in her large dreams of the future, she had overlooked. Never having travelled except in the company of some older person, who made all the arrangements, she was ignorant of where, and under what conditions, post-chaises were to be hired; or, failing this, the only mode of travel to which she was accustomed, how one obtained a seat on the stage, or the Mail; and at what hour these humbler conveyances left Leeds for London. She stole a glance at Laurence’s profile, and decided that it would be necessary to enlist his help. It might require some coaxing to obtain it; but she could not doubt that he was one of her more fervent admirers. Courtenay had jeered at her for being taken in by a fortune-hunter, and if Courtenay was right in thinking that the exquisite Mr Calver was hanging out for a rich wife she thought that it would not be difficult to persuade him to render her a signal service. She directed him to the King’s Head, adding that she would like some lemonade, and that there were several private parlours to be hired at this hostelry.

Laurence was perfectly ready to regale her with lemonade, but he thought it quite unnecessary, and even undesirable, to hire a private parlour. However, since she seemed to take it for granted that he would do so, he kept his objections to himself. But when, in the inn’s yard, he picked up her bandbox, it occurred to him that it was extraordinarily heavy. When Tiffany had first handed it up to him, he had been too much astonished by her festal raiment to pay any heed to the weight of the bandbox, but he now directed a look at her which was sharp with suspicion, and said: “Very heavy, this dress of yours, ain’t it?”

“Well, there are some other things in the box,” she confessed.

“I should rather think there must be! Seems to me there’s something pretty smokey going on, and if there is—”

“I am going to explain it to you!” she said hastily. “But in private, if you please!”

He regarded her with misgiving; but before he could say more she had flitted away from him, into the inn; and it was not until they had been ushered into the same parlour which Lindeth had hired for his memorable nuncheon-party that he was able to demand the explanation.

Tiffany bestowed upon him her most devastating smile, and said simply: “Well, I told you a bouncer! It isn’t a ball-dress. It’s—oh, all manner of things! I am going to London!”

“Going to London?” repeated Laurence blankly.

She fixed her glorious eyes to his face in a melting look. “Will you escort me?”

Mr Calver’s carefully arranged locks were too lavishly pomaded to rise on end, but his eyes showed a tendency to start from their sockets. He replied, unequivocally: “Good God, no! Of course I won’t!”

“Then I must go alone,” said Tiffany mournfully.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” demanded Laurence.

She sighed. “You must know I haven’t. I am going to—to seek the protection of my Uncle James Burford.”

“What do you want that for?” asked Laurence, unimpressed.

“I am very unhappy,” stated Tiffany. “My aunt has not used me as she should. Or Ancilla!”

Mr Calver’s intelligence was not generally thought to be of a high order, but he had no difficulty in interpreting this tragic utterance. He said gloomily, and with a regrettable want of tact: “Lindeth’s offered for the parson’s daughter, has he? Oh, well! I guessed as much! No use going to London, though: he wouldn’t care a straw!”

“Nor do I care a straw!” declared Tiffany, her eyes flashing. “That’s not why I am determined—determined!—to go to my uncle!”

“Well, it don’t signify,” said Laurence. “You can’t go to London today, that’s certain!”

“I can, and I will!”

“Not with my help,” said Laurence bluntly.

No one had ever responded thus to Tiffany’s demands; and it cost her a severe struggle to keep her temper. “I should be very grateful to you!” she suggested.

“I daresay you would,” he replied. “Much good that would do me! Lord, what an after-clap there would be if I was to do anything so ramshackle as to drive off to London with a chit of your age—and nothing but a dashed bandbox between the pair of us!” he added, looking with profound disapproval at this object.

“I didn’t mean we should go in the whisky! How can you be so absurd? A post-chaise, of course!”

“Yes, and four horses as well, no doubt!”

She nodded, surprised that he should have thought it necessary to have asked.

Her innocent look, far from captivating Laurence, exasperated him. “Have you the least notion what it would cost?” he demanded.

“Oh, what can that signify?” she exclaimed impatiently. “My uncle will pay for it!”

“Very likely, but he ain’t here,” Laurence pointed out.

“He will pay all the charges when I reach London.”

“You won’t reach London. Who’s to pay the first postboys? Who’s to pay for the changes of teams? If it comes to that, who’s to pay for your lodging on the road? It’s close on two hundred miles to London, you know—at least, I collect you don’t know! What’s more, you can’t put up at a posting-house, travelling all by yourself! I shouldn’t wonder at it if they refused to take you in. Well, I mean to say, who ever heard of such a thing? Now, do but consider, Miss Wield! You can’t do such a jingle-brained thing: take my word for it!”

“Do you care what people may say?” Tiffany asked scornfully.

“Yes,” he answered.

“How paltry! I don’t!”

“I daresay you don’t. You’re too young to know what you’re talking about. If you’re so set on going to London, you ask Miss Trent to take you there!”

“Oh, how stupid you are!” she cried passionately. “She wouldn’t do it!”

“Well, that quite settles it!” said Laurence. “You drink your lemonade, like a good girl, and I’ll drive you back to Staples. No need to tell anyone where we’ve been: just say we went farther than we intended!”

Curbing the impulse to throw the lemonade in his face, Tiffany said winningly: “I know you couldn’t be cruel enough to take me back to Staples. I had rather die than go back! Go with me to London! We could pretend we were married, couldn’t we? That would make everything right!”

“You know,” said Laurence severely, “you’ve got the most ramshackle notions of anyone I ever met! No, it would not make everything right!”

She looked provocatively at him, under her lashes. “What if I did marry you? Perhaps I will!”

“Yes, and perhaps you won’t!” he retorted. “Of all the outrageous—”‘

“I am very rich, you know! My cousin says that’s why you dangle after me!”

“Oh, does he? Well, you may tell your precious cousin, with my compliments, that I ain’t such a gudgeon as to run off with a girl who won’t come into her inheritance for four years!” said Laurence, much incensed. “Yes, and another thing! I wouldn’t do it if you was of age! For one thing, I don’t wish to marry you; and, for another, I ain’t a dashed hedge-bird, and I wouldn’t run a rig like that even if I were all to pieces!”

“Don’t wish to marry me?” Tiffany gasped, and suddenly burst into tears.

Horrified, Laurence said: “Not a marrying man! If I were—Oh, lord! For God’s sake, don’t cry! I didn’t mean—that is, any number of men wish to marry you! Shouldn’t wonder at it if you became a duchess! I assure you—most beautiful girl I ever set eyes on!”

“Nobody wants to marry me!” sobbed Tiffany.

“Mickleby! Ash! Young Banningham!” uttered Laurence.

“Those!”Tiffany said, with loathing. “Besides, they don’t! I wish I were dead!”

“You’re above their touch!” said Laurence desperately. “Above mine too! You’ll marry into the Peerage—see if you don’t! But not,”he added, “if you go beyond the line!”

“I don’t care! I want to go to London, and I will go to London! If you won’t escort me, will you lend me the money for the journey?”

“No—Good God, no! Besides, I haven’t got it! And even if I had I wouldn’t lend it to you!” Strong indignation rose in his breast. “What do you suppose my cousin Waldo would have to say to me if I was to do anything so cock-brained as to send you off to London in a post-chaise-and-four, with nothing but a dashed bandbox, and not so much as an abigail to take care of you?”

“Sir Waldo?” Tiffany said, her tears arrested. “Do you think he would be vexed?”

“Vexed! Tear me in pieces! What’s more,” said Laurence fairly, “I wouldn’t blame him! A nice mess I should be in! No, I thank you!”

“Very well!” said Tiffany tragically. “Leave me!”

“I do wish,” said Laurence, eyeing her with a patent want of admiration, “that you wouldn’t talk in that totty-headed fashion! Anyone would think you was regularly dicked in the nob! Leave you, indeed! A pretty figure I should cut!”

She shrugged. “Well, it’s no matter to me! If you choose to be disobliging—”

“It may not be any matter to you, but it is to me!” interrupted Laurence. “Seems to me nothing matters to you but yourself!”

“Well, it seems to me that nothing matters to you but yourself!” flashed Tiffany. “Go away! Go away, go away, go away!”

Her voice rose on every repetition of the command, and Laurence, in the liveliest dread of being precipitated into a scandalous scene, swallowed his spleen, and adopted a conciliatory tone. “Now, listen!” he begged. “You don’t want for sense, and you must see that I can’t go away, leaving you here alone! What the deuce would you do? Tell me that! And don’t say you’ll go to London, because for one thing you haven’t enough blunt to pay for the hire of a chaise, and for another I’d lay you long odds there ain’t a postmaster living that would be such a clunch as to oblige you! If you was to try to tip him a rise, he’d be bound to think you was running away from school, or some such thing, and a rare hobble he’d be in if he aided and abetted you! What he’d do would be to send for the constable, and then your tale would be told!” He perceived that her eyes had widened in dismay, and at once enlarged on this theme. “Before you knew where you were you’d be taken before a magistrate, and if you refused to tell him who you was he’d commit you. A pretty piece of business that would be!”