“You are two very silly, impertinent children!” said Mrs. Darracott, trying not to laugh. “And what your Aunt Aurelia will think of you, if you talk in that improper style, makes me quite sick with apprehension!”

“We won’t,” promised Anthea. “We will remember that a want of conduct in us reflects directly upon you, love, and, we will behave with all the propriety in the world.”

“If she stops trying to gammon us,” amended Richmond.

“Oh, that is understood! How does Grandpapa mean to make the best of our new cousin, Mama?”

“Well, my dears,” responded the widow, capitulating, “he seems to think that it will be necessary to lick the unfortunate young man into shape. At least, that’s what he said.”

“Unfortunate young man indeed!”

“I own, one can’t but feel a great deal of compassion for him, yet it can’t be denied that it is a severe trial for your grandfather to know that he must be succeeded by quite a vulgar person. I should be very much vexed myself, and heaven knows I don’t set half the store by my consequence that your grandfather does! Oh dear, how uncomfortable it will be! I did hope, when I learned that he is a military man, that he might be quite gentlemanlike, but your grandfather says that the army has grown so large, on account of the war’s having dragged on for such a time, that it is full of what he calls shabby-genteel officers—though how he should know that, when he never stirs from home, is more than I can tell! And to make it worse the poor man is in the wrong sort of regiment.”

“What?” ejaculated Richmond, kindling. “He’s in the 95th! A Light Division man! I should like to know what is wrong with that!”

“Well, dearest, I don’t know anything about such matters myself, but Grandpapa spoke of its being newfangled, which, of course, would account for his not liking it.”

“If that’s the way my grandfather means to talk he’ll make more of a Jack-pudding of himself than ever this cousin could, even if he is a rum ’un!” declared Richmond hotly. “Of all the antiquated, top-lofty—”

“Well, don’t put yourself in a passion!” recommended his sister. “You cannot suppose that anything other than a cavalry regiment, or the 1st Foot Guards, would do for a Darracott!”

“Balderdash!” said Richmond. “I don’t mean I wouldn’t wish for a cavalry regiment myself, but if I can’t—couldn’t—join one, I’d as lief be a Light Bob as anything else. And if Grandpapa says something slighting—oh, lord, I shan’t know where to look! I wonder if this man marched to Talavera? Do you know that—” He broke off, seeing his mother look quickly up at him, a stricken expression in her face. “Oh, well!” he said, shrugging. “It’s of no consequence—only I do hope to God Grandpapa doesn’t make a cake of himself! Go on, Mama! How is our cousin to be licked into shape? Does my grandfather mean to undertake the task himself? The wretched victim will seize the first opportunity that offers of escaping from the home of his fathers!”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Darracott said. “That is—no, I am persuaded your grandfather doesn’t mean—He said something about Vincent’s being able to hint him into the established mode.”

“Vincent! He won’t do it!” said Richmond positively.

“No, well—well, at least your grandfather seems to feel that we ought, all of us, to use the young man kindly!” Mrs. Darracott perceived that both her children were regarding her with a mixture of surprise and disbelief, and her colour rose. She began to rearrange the Paisley shawl she wore draped round her shoulders, and said, rather too airily: “I am sure it is greatly to his credit, and not at all what one would have expected! Poor young man! Your cousin, I mean, not Grandpapa! I daresay he will feel sadly out of place here, and we must try to make him welcome. I shall certainly do so, and I hope you will, too, dearest Anthea. Grandpapa is—is particularly anxious that you should make yourself agreeable to him. Indeed, I don’t know why you should not! Not that I mean ...” Aware that two pairs of fine grey eyes were fixed on her face, she found herself unable to finish this sentence, and tried hurriedly to begin another. “Dear me, how late it is! Anthea, my love,—”

“Mama!” uttered Anthea accusingly. “If you don’t tell me precisely what it was that my grandfather said to you I’ll go to the library and ask him!”

This dreadful threat threw Mrs. Darracott into instant disorder. She scolded a little, wept a little, asseverated that my lord had said nothing at all, and ended by divulging to her children that my lord had conceived the happy notion of bringing about a match between his shabby-genteel heir and his only unmarried granddaughter. “To keep him in the Family!”she explained earnestly.

That was all that was needed to send Richmond into shouts of laughter. His sister, in general a girl with a lively sense of the ridiculous, found herself easily able to withstand the infection of his laughter. She waited in ominous silence until his mirth abated, and then, transferring her gaze from him to her mother, asked with careful restraint: “Does it ever occur to you, Mama, that my grandfather is a lunatic?”

“Frequently!”Mrs. Darracott assured her. “That is—oh, dear, what am I saying? Of course not! Perhaps he is a trifle eccentric!”

“Eccentric! He’s a mediaeval bedlamite!” said Anthea, not mincing matters. “Upon my word, this is beyond everything!”

“I was afraid you would not quite like it,” agreed her mother unhappily. “Now, Richmond—! You will be in whoops if you don’t take care! Foolish boy! There is nothing to laugh at!”

“Let him go into whoops, Mama! They may choke him!”

Mrs. Darracott was shocked by this unfeeling speech, but thought it wisest, after one glance at Anthea’s stormy face, to beg Richmond to go away. He did go, but it was a moment or two before Anthea’s wrath abated. She had jumped up from the footstool, and now look several turns about the room in a hasty, impetuous way which filled Mrs. Darracott with foreboding. However, she soon recovered her temper, and, although still incensed, was presently able to laugh at herself. “I should know better than to fly up into the boughs for anything that detestable old man could say or do! I beg your pardon, Mama, but it puts me in such a rage when he behaves as though he were the Grand Turk, and we a parcel of slaves—! So I am to marry the weaver’s son, am I? I collect that I have nothing to say in, the matter: has the weaver’s son? Has he been informed of the fate that awaits him?”

“Oh, no! That is—I did venture to suggest to your grandfather—But he said—you know his way!—that the poor young man would do as he was bid!”

“And he will!” said Anthea. “That’s to say, he’ll try! Wretched, wretched man! I pity him with all my heart! He will be miserably ill-at-ease, miserably out of place, , and will arrive to find himself under fire! Grandpapa will overawe him within five minutes! Mama, it is infamous! Did you tell my grandfather that I shouldn’t consent to such a scheme?”

“Well—well, I didn’t say that, precisely!” confessed Mrs. Darracott, in acute discomfort. “To own the truth, my love, I was so much taken-aback that—”

“Then I will, and immediately!” declared Anthea, going towards the door.

She was halted by a small, anguished shriek. “Anthea, I forbid you—I implore you!—He would be so angry! He will say that he told me not to say one word to you about it, and he did!”

Anthea could not be impervious to this appeal. She paused; and, pursuing her advantage, Mrs. Darracott said: “My dearest, you have so much good sense! I know you will consider carefully before you—Not that I would urge you to marry him if you felt you couldn’t like him! I promise you I would never, never—But what will you do, Anthea? Oh, my dearest child, I’m cast into despair whenever I think of it! You are two-and-twenty, and how can you hope to receive a respectable offer, when you never meet anyone but the Family, or go anywhere, or—And here is your grandfather saying that you frittered away your chances when he was so obliging as to frank you to a London Season, and so you must now be content with a husband of his choosing!”

“During my one Season,” said Anthea, in a level tone, “I received two offers of marriage. One came from a widower, old enough, I conjecture, to have been my father. The other was from young Oversley, who, besides being next door to a moonling, had the fixed intention of continuing under his parents’ roof. Between Grandpapa and Lady Aberford I am persuaded there wasn’t the difference of a hair! I haven’t watched the trials you’ve been made to endure only to stumble into the same snare, Mama!”

“No, and heaven knows, dear child, I must be the last person alive to wish to see you in such a situation,” sighed Mrs. Darracott.

“I could, I think, have developed a tendre for Jack Froyle,” said Anthea reflectively. “But he, you know, was obliged to hang out for a rich wife, and thanks to the improvidence for which the Darracotts are so justly famed my portion can’t be called anything but paltry. Does Grandpapa consider that circumstance when he talks of the chances I have frittered away?”

“No, he doesn’t!” replied Mrs. Darracott, with unaccustomed bitterness. “But I do, and it utterly sinks my spirits! That’s why I can’t help thinking that perhaps you ought not to set your face against this scheme of your grandfather’s. Not until you have met your cousin, at all events, my love! Of course, if he should prove to be impossible—only, you know, his is a Darracott onone side!”

“The side I should like the least!” said Anthea.