For the first time there was a note of softness in his voice.

Nina’s face was burning.

“I would rather have something you do not care about,” she said in a low tone.

Instantly his face grew hard.

“Give me your hand!” he said shortly.  “The left, please!”

She gave it, the flush dying swiftly from her cheeks.  She could not control its trembling as he deliberately fitted the ring on to the third finger.

“Understand,” he said, “that I wish this ring and no other to be the token of your engagement to me.  If you object to it, I am sorry.  But, after all, it will only be in keeping with the rest.  I must go now as I have an appointment to keep.  Your father has asked me to lunch on Sunday and I have accepted.  I hope you will pay me the compliment of being at home.”

III

THE HONEYMOON

The first of June fell on a Saturday that year, and a good many people remained in town for it in order to be present at the wedding of Lord Marchmont’s only daughter to Hereford Wingarde, the millionaire.

Comments upon Nina’s choice had even yet scarcely died out, and Archie Neville, her faithful friend and admirer, was still wondering why he and his very comfortable income had been passed over for this infernal bounder whom no one knew.  He had proposed to Nina twice, and on each occasion her refusal had seemed to him to be tinged with regret.  To use his own expression, he was “awfully cut up” by the direction affairs had taken.  But, philosophically determined to make the best of it, he attended the wedding with a smiling face, and even had the audacity to kiss the bride—­a privilege that had not been his since childhood.

Hereford Wingarde, standing by his wife’s side, the recipient of congratulations from crowds of people who seemed to be her intimate friends, but whom he had never seen before, noted that salute of Archie Neville’s with a very slight lift of his black brows.  He noted also that Nina returned it, and that her hand lingered in that of the young man longer than in those of any of her other friends.  It was a small circumstance, but it stuck in his memory.

A house had been lent them for the honeymoon by one of Nina’s wealthy friends in the Lake District.  They arrived there hard upon midnight, having dined on board the train.

A light meal awaited them, to which they immediately sat down.

“You are tired,” Wingarde said, as the lamplight fell upon his bride’s flushed face and bright eyes.

His own eyes were critical.  She laughed and turned aside from them.

“I am not at all tired,” she said.  “I am only sorry the journey is over.  I miss the noise.”

He made no further comment.  He had a disconcerting habit of dropping into sudden silences.  It took possession of him now, and they finished their refreshment with scarcely a word.