His walk was long and full of savage thinking.  Once or twice as he realised what the disinterestedness of his sentiments was supposed to be, a short laugh broke from him which was rather like the snort of the Bishopess.

“I am supposed to be moonstruck over a simpering American chit—­moonstruck!  Damn!” But when he returned to his hotel he had made up his mind and was beginning to look over the situation in evil cold blood.  Matters must be settled without delay and he was shrewd enough to realise that with his temper and its varied resources a timid girl would not be difficult to manage.  He had seen at an early stage of their acquaintance that Rosy was greatly impressed by the superiority of his bearing, that he could make her blush with embarrassment when he conveyed to her that she had made a mistake, that he could chill her miserably when he chose to assume a lofty stiffness.  A man’s domestic armoury was filled with weapons if he could make a woman feel gauche, inexperienced, in the wrong.  When he was safely married, he could pave the way to what he felt was the only practical and feasible end.

If he had been marrying a woman with more brains, she would be more difficult to subdue, but with Rosalie Vanderpoel, processes were not necessary.  If you shocked, bewildered or frightened her with accusations, sulks, or sneers, her light, innocent head was set in such a whirl that the rest was easy.  It was possible, upon the whole, that the thing might not turn out so infernally ill after all.  Supposing that it had been Bettina who had been the marriageable one!  Appreciating to the full the many reasons for rejoicing that she had not been, he walked in gloomy reflection home.

CHAPTER III

YOUNG LADY ANSTRUTHERS

When the marriage took place the event was accompanied by an ingenuously elate flourish of trumpets.  Miss Vanderpoel’s frocks were multitudinous and wonderful, as also her jewels purchased at Tiffany’s.  She carried a thousand trunks—­more or less—­across the Atlantic.  When the ship steamed away from the dock, the wharf was like a flower garden in the blaze of brilliant and delicate attire worn by the bevy of relatives and intimates who stood waving their handkerchiefs and laughingly calling out farewell good wishes.

Sir Nigel’s mental attitude was not a sympathetic or admiring one as he stood by his bride’s side looking back.  If Rosy’s half happy, half tearful excitement had left her the leisure to reflect on his expression, she would not have felt it encouraging.

“What a deuce of a row Americans make,” he said even before they were out of hearing of the voices.  “It will be a positive rest to be in a country where the women do not cackle and shriek with laughter.”

He said it with that simple rudeness which at times professed to be almost impersonal, and which Rosalie had usually tried to believe was the outcome of a kind of cool British humour.  But this time she started a little at his words.