“You will ask her, won’t you?” he murmured.  “She’s very nice when she chooses.”

“She wouldn’t have me,” I said, laughing.

“Oh yes, she would; and then you need never leave us, which would be pleasant for all, I think.  Won’t you ask her, cousin?”

“You ask her,” I said.

“Dorothy,” he broke out, eagerly.  “You will wed him, won’t you?  Our cousin Ormond says he will if you will.  And I’ll tell Sir George that it’s just a family matter, and, besides, he’s too old—­”

“Yes, tell Sir George that,” sneered Ruyven, who had listened in an embarrassment that certainly Dorothy had not betrayed.  “You’re a great fool, Harry.  Don’t you know that when people want to wed they ask each other’s permission to ask each other’s father, and then their fathers ask each other, and then they ask each—­”

“Other!” cried Dorothy, laughing deliciously.  “Oh, Ruyven, Ruyven, you certainly will be the death of me!”

“All the same,” said Harry, sullenly, “our cousin wishes to wed you.”

“Do you?” asked Dorothy, raising her amused eyes to me.

“I fear I come too late,” I said, forcing a smile I was not inclined to.

“Ah, yes; too late,” she sighed, pretending a doleful mien.

“Why?” demanded Harry, blankly.

Dorothy shook her head.  “Sir George would never permit me such a liberty.  If he would, our cousin Ormond and I could wed at once; you see I have my bride’s stockings here; Cecile could do my hair, Sammy carry my prayer-book, Benny my train, Ruyven read the service—­”

Harry, flushing at the shout of laughter, gave Dorothy a dark look, turned and eyed me, then scowled again at Dorothy.

“All the same,” he said, slowly, “you’re a great goose not to wed him....  And you’ll be sorry ... when he’s dead!”

At this veiled prophecy of my approaching dissolution, all were silent save Dorothy and Ruyven, whose fresh laughter rang out peal on peal.

“Laugh,” said Harry, gloomily; “but you won’t laugh when he’s killed in the war, ... and scalped, too.”

Ruyven, suddenly sober, looked up at me.  Dorothy bent over her needle-work and examined it attentively.

“Are you going to the war?” asked Cecile, plaintively.

“Of course he’s going; so am I,” replied Ruyven, striking a careless pose against a pillar.

“On which side, Ruyven?” inquired Dorothy, sorting her silks.

“On my cousin’s side, of course,” he said, uneasily.

“Which side is that?” asked Cecile.

Confused, flushing painfully, the boy looked at me; and I rescued him, saying, “We’ll talk that over when we ride bounds this afternoon.  Ruyven and I understand each other, don’t we, Ruyven?”

He gave me a grateful glance.  “Yes,” he said, shyly.

Sir George Covert, a trifle pallid, but bland and urbane, strolled out to the porch, saluting us gracefully.  He paused beside Dorothy, who slipped her needle through her work and held out her hand for him to salute.