As he was always watching her face—­a practice he carried further than any person living—­he divined that sentiment, and wrought upon it so, that at last he tormented her into saying she would marry him some day.

When he had brought her to that, he raged inwardly to think he had not two years to work in; for it was evident she would marry him in time.  But no, it had taken him more than four months, close siege, to bring her to that.  No word from Phoebe.  An ominous dread hung over his own soul.  His wife would be upon him, or, worse still, her brother Dick, who he knew would beat him to a mummy on the spot; or, worst of all, the husband of Rosa Staines, who would kill him, or fling him into a prison.  He must make a push.

In this emergency he used his ally, Mr. Lusignan; he told him Mrs. Staines had promised to marry him, but at some distant date.  This would not do; he must look after his enormous interests in the colony, and he was so much in love he could not leave her.

The old gentleman was desperately fond of Falcon, and bent on the match, and he actually consented to give his daughter what Falcon called a little push.

The little push was a very great one, I think.

It consisted in directing the clergyman to call in church the banns of marriage between Reginald Falcon and Rosa Staines.

They were both in church together when this was done.  Rosa all but screamed, and then turned red as fire and white as a ghost, by turns.  She never stood up again all the service; and in going home refused Falcon’s arm, and walked swiftly home by herself.  Not that she had the slightest intention of passing this monstrous thing by in silence.  On the contrary, her wrath was boiling over, and so hot that she knew she should make a scene in the street if she said a word there.

Once inside the house she turned on Falcon, with a white cheek and a flashing eye, and said, “Follow me, sir, if you please.”  She led the way to her father’s study.  “Papa,” said she, “I throw myself on your protection.  Mr. Falcon has affronted me.”

“Oh, Rosa!” cried Falcon, affecting utter dismay.

“Publicly—­publicly:  he has had the banns of marriage cried in the church, without my permission.”

“Don’t raise your voice so loud, child.  All the house will hear you.”

“I choose all the house to hear me.  I will not endure it.  I will never marry you now—­never!”

“Rosa, my child,” said Lusignan, “you need not scold poor Falcon, for I am the culprit.  It was I who ordered the banns to be cried.”

“Oh! papa, you had no right to do such a thing as that.”

“I think I had.  I exercised parental authority for once, and for your good, and for the good of a true and faithful lover of yours, whom you jilted once, and now you trifle with his affection and his interests.  He loves you too well to leave you; yet you know his vast estates and interests require supervision.”