“It didn’t occur to either of us,” said Hilary, looking down with a smile at the corners of her mouth.  “He chose to take exception to my being seen riding in the park with Mr. Fletcher.  And I took exception to his interference.  Not that I like Mr. Fletcher, for I don’t.  But I had to assert my right to choose my own friends.  He disputed it.  And then we parted.  No one is going to interfere with my freedom.”

“You were never truly in love with him, then?” said Mrs. St. Orme, regret and relief struggling in her voice.

Hilary looked up with clear eyes.

“Oh, never, darling!” she said tranquilly.  “Nor he with me.  I don’t know what it means; do you?  You can’t—­surely—­be in love with the poor old pater?”

She laughed at the idea and idly took up a paper lying at hand.  Half a minute later she uttered a sharp cry and looked up with flaming cheeks.

“How—­how—­dare he?” she cried, almost incoherent with angry astonishment.  “Sybil!  For Heaven’s sake!  See!”

She thrust the paper upon her step-mother’s knee and pointed with a finger that shook uncontrollably at a brief announcement in the society column.

“We are requested to state that the announcement in yesterday’s issue that the marriage arranged between Viscount Merrivale and Miss Hilary St. Orme would not take place was erroneous.  The marriage will take place, as previously announced, towards the end of the season.”

* * * * *

“What sublime assurance!” exclaimed Bertie St. Orme, lying on his back in the luxurious punt which his sister was leisurely impelling up stream, and laughing up at her flushed face.  “This viscount of yours seems to have plenty of decision of character, whatever else he may be lacking in.”

Bertie St. Orme was a cripple, and spent every summer regularly upon the river with his old manservant, nicknamed “the Badger.”

“Oh, he is quite impossible!” Hilary declared.  “Let’s talk of something else!”

“But he means to keep you to your word, eh?” her brother persisted.  “How will you get out of it?”

Hilary’s face flushed more deeply, and she bit her lip.

“There won’t be any getting out of it.  Don’t be silly!  I am free.”

“The end of the season!” teased Bertie.  “That allows you—­let’s see—­four, five, six more weeks of freedom.”

“Be quiet, if you don’t want a drenching!” warned Hilary.  “Besides,” she added, with inconsequent optimism, “anything may happen before then.  Why, I may even be married to a man I really like.”

“Great Scotland, so you may!” chuckled her brother.  “There’s the wild man that Dick has brought down here to tame before launching at society.  He’s a great beast like a brown bear.  He wouldn’t be my taste, but that’s a detail.”

“I hate fashionable men!” declared Hilary, with scarlet face.  “I’d rather marry a red Indian than one of these inane men about town.”