‘But as a naval officer?’

‘Excellent.’

Cecilia was convinced that Mr. Culbrett underestimated Beauchamp.  Nevertheless the confidence expressed in Beauchamp’s defeat reassured and pleased her.  At midnight she was dancing with him in the midst of great matronly country vessels that raised a wind when they launched on the waltz, and exacted an anxious pilotage on the part of gentlemen careful of their partners; and why I cannot say, but contrasts produce quaint ideas in excited spirits, and a dancing politician appeared to her so absurd that at one moment she had to bite her lips not to laugh.  It will hardly be credited that the waltz with Nevil was delightful to Cecilia all the while, and dancing with others a penance.  He danced with none other.  He led her to a three o’clock morning supper:  one of those triumphant subversions of the laws and customs of earth which have the charm of a form of present deification for all young people; and she, while noting how the poor man’s advocate dealt with costly pasties and sparkling wines, was overjoyed at his hearty comrade’s manner with the gentlemen, and a leadership in fun that he seemed to have established.  Cecil Baskelett acknowledged it, and complimented him on it.  ’I give you my word, Nevil, I never heard you in finer trim.  Here’s to our drive into Bevisham to-morrow!  Do you drink it?  I beg; I entreat.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Nevil.

‘Will you take a whip down there?’

‘If you’re all insured.’

’On my honour, old Nevil, driving a four-in-hand is easier than governing the country.’

‘I’ll accept your authority for what you know best,’ said Nevil.

The toast of the Drive into Bevisham was drunk.

Cecilia left the supper-table, mortified, and feeling disgraced by her participation in a secret that was being wantonly abused to humiliate Nevil, as she was made to think by her sensitiveness.  All the gentlemen were against him, excepting perhaps that chattering pie Lord Palmet, who did him more mischief than his enemies.  She could not sleep.  She walked out on the terrace with Mrs. Wardour-Devereux, in a dream, hearing that lady breathe remarks hardly less than sentimental, and an unwearied succession of shouts from the smoking-room.

‘They are not going to bed to-night,’ said Mrs. Devereux.

‘They are mystifying Captain Beauchamp,’ said Cecilia.

’My husband tells me they are going to drive him into the town to-morrow.’

Cecilia flushed:  she could scarcely get her breath.

‘Is that their plot?’ she murmured.

Sleep was rejected by her, bed itself.  The drive into Bevisham had been fixed for nine A.M.  She wrote two lines on note-paper in her room:  but found them overfervid and mysterious.  Besides, how were they to be conveyed to Nevil’s chamber.