“I have been thinking,” she said at last, “that if you brought your ward to see us, and she could accompany us on this cruise to Norway, the scandal would be scotched outright.”

She glanced at me very keenly, and beneath her indulgent smile I saw the hardness of the old campaigner.  It was a clever trap she had prepared for me.

I took her hand and in my noblest manner, like the exiled vicomte in costume drama, bent over it and kissed her finger-tips.

“I thank you, my dear aunt, for your generous faith in my integrity,” I said, “and I assure you your confidence is well founded.”

A loud, gay laugh from the other room interrupted me.

“Are you two rehearsing private theatricals?” cried Dora.  As I was attired in a remarkably old college blazer and a pair of yellow Moorish slippers bought a couple of years ago in Tangier, and as my hair was straight on end, owing to a habit of passing my fingers through it while I work, my attitude perhaps did not strike a spectator as being so noble as I had imagined.  I took advantage of the anti-climax, however, to bring my aunt from the balcony to the centre of the room, where Dora joined us.

“Well, has mother prevailed?”

“My dear Dora,” said I, politely, “how can you imagine it could possibly be a question of persuasion?”

“That might be taken two ways,” said Dora.  “Like Palmerston’s ‘Dear Sir, I’ll lose no time in reading your book.’” Dora is a minx.

“I fear,” said I, “that my pedantic historical sense must venture to correct you.  It was Lord Beaconsfield.”

“Well, he got it from Palmerston,” insisted Dora.

“You children must not quarrel,” interposed my aunt, in the fond, maternal tone which I find peculiarly unpleasant.  “Marcus will see how his engagements stand, and let us know in a day or two.”

“When do you propose to start?” I asked.

“Quite soon.  On the 20th.

“I will let you know finally in good time,” said I.

As I accompanied them downstairs, I heard a door at the end of the passage open, and turning I saw Carlotta’s pretty head thrust past the jamb, and her eyes fixed on the visitors.  I motioned her back, sharply, and my aunt and Dora made an unsuspecting exit.  The noise of their departing chariot wheels was music to my ears.

Carlotta came rushing out of her sitting-room followed by Miss Griggs, protesting.

“Who those fine ladies?” she cried, with her hands on my sleeve.

“Who are those ladies?” I corrected.

“Who are those ladies?” Carlotta repeated, like a demure parrot.

“They are friends of mine.”

Then came the eternal question.

“Is she married, the young one?”

“Miss Griggs,” said I, “kindly instil into Carlotta’s mind the fact that no young English woman ever thinks about marriage until she is actually engaged, and then her thoughts do not go beyond the wedding.”