Leroy winced; for he himself would have endeavoured to “slip in and carry her off” had it not been for his friend.

“I don’t see the need of secrecy,” he said coldly.  “Have you spoken to her guardian?” meaning, of course, Lord Barminster.

Unfortunately, to Lord Standon, being in love, there was only one woman in the world, and therefore only one guardian, and that one, her father, the Earl of Croywood.

“Good gracious, no!” he exclaimed.  “He’s such an old curmudgeon—­that until I get over that beastly race——­” He broke off, scarlet with confusion.  Absorbed in his own affairs, he had completely forgotten that he was speaking to the owner of the unlucky horse.

Leroy was pale with anger; the reference to the race annoyed him, but still more the expression of “curmudgeon” as applied to his father.  Naturally, if he had stopped to consider, he would have realised that there must be some mistake; for Standon would hardly have spoken thus of Lord Barminster in his son’s presence.  But what lover ever does use his common sense?  He drew himself up sternly, and Standon could have kicked himself for his unfortunate speech.

“I don’t mean—­that is—­it’s not your fault——­” he stammered.

“Thank you,” said Leroy ironically.

“Oh, you know what I mean.  Don’t pull me up like that, Adrien.  I wasn’t thinking of its being you—­and you know what it is when a fellow’s in love with the sweetest, dearest——­”

Leroy turned sharply.  It was more than any one could be expected to bear; insult to his father, blame to his horse, and now praise of the woman he himself loved.

“Excuse me, Standon,” he interrupted curtly, “I’m afraid I must ask you to spare me your rhapsodies—­I am due at the theatre.”

It was Standon’s turn to be offended, and his good-tempered face hardened.

“Certainly.  Pray accept my apologies for having detained you.  Good-night,” he said coldly, and before Leroy could even answer, he was gone.

Adrien strode restlessly up and down.  For the first time in all his easy-going life trouble had touched him.  He determined to forget it at whatever cost; so telling Norgate not to wait up for him, he set out for the Casket.  It was such a lovely night that he dismissed the motor which was awaiting him, deciding to walk across the park to Victoria Street, and call in on Shelton, who had a flat there.

The park was beautifully silent, and still stood open to the public.  Absorbed in his reflections, therefore, he left the main track and wandered down one of the by-paths, in which stood several wooden benches.  Big Ben struck the half-hour.  There was just time for another cigar, and Leroy sat down.  He was in no humour yet to endure the heat of the theatre, or the chaff and vulgarity of Ada Lester.

He lost count of time, in the pleasant quietude of the spot; and his cigar was burnt down to an inch when, with a half-sigh, he arose to exchange the hard seat amidst the cool trees for a lounge and a crowd of ballet girls at the theatre.