“I must tell you, child, that I refuse to listen to such rank idiotcy.”

“It’s nothing of the kind, aunt.”

“The fancy of a boy.”

“He’s not a boy.  He’s half-a-year older than I am!”

“You silly child!  The moment you fall in love, you all think yourselves men.”

“On my honour, aunt!  I believe he loves her thoroughly.”

“Did he tell you so, child?”

“Men don’t speak openly of those things,” said Richard.

“Boys do,” said Mrs. Doria.

“But listen to me in earnest, aunt.  I want you to be kind to Ralph.  Don’t drive him to—­You maybe sorry for it.  Let him—­do let him write to her, and see her.  I believe women are as cruel as men in these things.”

“I never encourage absurdity, Richard.”

“What objection have you to Ralph, aunt?”

“Oh, they’re both good families.  It’s not that absurdity, Richard.  It will be to his credit to remember that his first fancy wasn’t a dairymaid.”  Mrs. Doria pitched her accent tellingly.  It did not touch her nephew.

“Don’t you want Clare ever to marry?” He put the last point of reason to her.

Mrs. Doria laughed.  “I hope so, child.  We must find some comfortable old gentleman for her.”

“What infamy!” mutters Richard.

“And I engage Ralph shall be ready to dance at her wedding, or eat a hearty breakfast—­We don’t dance at weddings now, and very properly.  It’s a horrid sad business, not to be treated with levity.—­Is that his regiment?” she said, as they passed out of the hussar-sentinelled gardens.  “Tush, tush, child!  Master Ralph will recover, as—­hem! others have done.  A little headache—­you call it heartache—­and up you rise again, looking better than ever.  No doubt, to have a grain of sense forced into your brains, you poor dear children! must be painful..  Girls suffer as much as boys, I assure you.  More, for their heads are weaker, and their appetites less constant.  Do I talk like your father now?  Whatever makes the boy fidget at his watch so?”

Richard stopped short.  Time spoke urgently.

“I must go,” he said.

His face did not seem good for trifling.  Mrs. Doria would trifle in spite.

“Listen, Clare!  Richard is going.  He says he has an engagement.  What possible engagement can a young man have at eleven o’clock in the morning?—­unless it’s to be married!” Mrs. Doria laughed at the ingenuity of her suggestion.

“Is the church handy, Ricky?” said Adrian.  “You can still give us half-an-hour if it is.  The celibate hours strike at Twelve.”  And he also laughed in his fashion.

“Won’t you stay with us, Richard?” Clare asked.  She blushed timidly, and her voice shook.

Something indefinite—­a sharp-edged thrill in the tones made the burning bridegroom speak gently to her.

“Indeed, I would, Clare; I should like to please you, but I have a most imperative appointment—­that is, I promised—­I must go.  I shall see you again”—­