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  He winced a little, but his arms did not slacken their hold; rather they tightened slightly. “Never hit with an open palm, Clorinda,” he told her. “I will show you how in a minute. Up with you!”

  Miss Taverner was tossed up into the curricle, and collapsed on to the seat in some disorder. The gentleman in the caped greatcoat picked up her parasol and gave it to her, took the sandal from her resistless grasp, and calmly held it ready to fit on to her foot.

  To struggle for possession of it would be an undignified business; to climb down from the curricle was impossible. Miss Taverner, quivering with temper, put out her stockinged foot. He slipped the sandal on, and tied the string.

  “Thank you!” said Miss Taverner with awful civility. “Now if you will give me your hand out of your carriage I may resume my walk.”

  “But I am not going to give you my hand,” he said. “I am going to drive you back to Grantham.”

  His tone provoked her to reply disdainfully: “You may think that a great honour, sir, but—”

  “It is a great honour,” he said. “I never drive females.”

  “No,” said his tiger suddenly. “Else I wouldn’t be here. Not a minute I wouldn’t.”

  “Henry, you see, is a misogynist,” explained the gentleman, apparently not in the least annoyed by this unceremonious interruption.

  “I am not interested in you or in your servant!” snapped Miss Taverner.

  “That is what I like in you,” he agreed, and sprang lightly up into the curricle, and stepped across her to the box-seat. “Now let me show you how to hit me.”

  Miss Taverner resisted, but he possessed himself of her gloved hand and doubled it into a fist. “Keep your thumb down so, and hit like that. Not at my chin, I think. Aim for the eye, or the nose, if you prefer.”

  Miss Taverner sat rigid.

  “I won’t retaliate,” he promised. Then, as she still made no movement, he said: “I see I shall have to offer you provocation,” and swiftly kissed her.

  Miss Taverner’s hands clenched into two admirable fists, but she controlled an unladylike impulse, and kept them in her lap. She was both shaken and enraged by the kiss, and hardly knew where to look. No other man than her father or Peregrine had ever dared to kiss her. At a guess she supposed the gentleman to have written her down as some country tradesman’s daughter from a Queen’s Square boarding school. Her old-fashioned dress was to blame, and no doubt that abominable gig. She wished she did not blush so hotly, and said with as much scorn as she could throw into her voice: “Even a dandy might remember the civility due to a gentlewoman. I shall not hit you.”

  “I am disappointed,” he said. “There is nothing for it but to go in search of your brother. Stand away, Henry.”

  The tiger sprang back, and ran to scramble up on to his perch again. The curricle moved forward, and in another minute was bowling rapidly along the road towards Grantham.

  “You may set me down at the George, sir,” said Miss Taverner coldly. “No doubt if my brother is come back from the fight he will oblige you in the way, I, alas, am not able to do.”

  He laughed. “Hit me, do you mean? All things are possible, Clorinda, though some are—unlikely, let us say.”

  She folded her lips, and for a while did not speak. Her companion maintained a flow of languid conversation until she interrupted him, impelled by curiosity to ask him the question in her mind. “Why did you wish to drive me into Grantham?”

  He glanced down at her rather mockingly. “Just to annoy you, Clorinda. The impulse was irresistible, believe me.”

  She took refuge in silence again, for she could find no adequate words with which to answer him. She had never been spoken to so in her life; she was more than a little inclined to think him mad.

  Grantham came into sight; in a few minutes the curricle drew up outside the George, and the first thing Miss Taverner saw was her brother’s face above the blind in one of the lower windows.

  The gentleman descended from the curricle, and held up his hand for her to take. “Do smile!” he said.

  Miss Taverner allowed him to help her down, but preserved an icy front. She swept into the inn ahead of him, and nearly collided with Peregrine, hurrying out to meet her.

  “Judith! What the devil?” exclaimed Peregrine. “Has there been an accident?”

  “Judith,” repeated the gentleman of the curricle pensively. “I prefer Clorinda.”

  “No,” said Judith. “Nothing of the sort. This—gentleman—constrained me to ride in his carriage, that is all.”

  “Constrained you!” Peregrine took a hasty step forward.

  She was sorry to have said so much, and added at once: “Do not let us be standing here talking about it! I think he is mad.”

  The gentleman gave his low laugh, and produced a snuffbox from one pocket, and held a pinch first to one nostril and then to the other.

  Peregrine advanced upon him, and said stormily: “Sir, I shall ask you to explain yourself!”

  “You forgot to tell him that I kissed you, Clorinda,” murmured the gentleman.

  “What?” shouted Peregrine.

  “For heaven’s sake be quiet!” snapped his sister.

  Peregrine ignored her. “You will meet me for this, sir! I hoped I might come upon you again, and I have. And now to find that you have dared to insult my sister. You shall hear from me!”

  A look of amusement crossed the gentleman’s face. “Are you proposing to fight a duel with me?” he inquired.

  “Where and when you like!” said Peregrine.

  The gentleman raised his brows. “My good boy, that is very heroic, but do you really think that I cross swords with every country nobody who chooses to be offended with me?”

  “Now, Julian, Julian, what are you about?” demanded a voice from the doorway into the coffee-room. “Oh, I beg pardon, ma’am! I beg pardon!” Lord Worcester came into the hall with a glass in his hand, and paused, irresolute.

  Peregrine, beyond throwing him a fleeting glance, paid no heed to him. He was searching in his pocket for a card, and this he presently thrust at the gentleman in the greatcoat. “That is my card, sir!”

  The gentleman took it between finger and thumb, and raised an eyeglass on the end of a gold stick attached to a ribbon round his neck. “Taverner,” he said musingly. “Now where have I heard that name before?”

  “I do not expect to be known to you, sir,” said Peregrine, trying to keep his voice steady. “Perhaps I am a nobody, but there is a gentleman who I think—I am sure—will be pleased to act for me: Mr. Henry Fitzjohn, of Cork Street!”

  “Oh, Fitz!” nodded Lord Worcester. “So you know him, do you?”

  “Taverner,” repeated the gentleman in the greatcoat, taking not the smallest notice of Peregrine’s speech. “It has something of a familiar ring, I think.”

  “Admiral Taverner,” said Lord Worcester helpfully. “Meet him for ever at Fladong’s.”

  “And if that is not enough, sir, to convince you that I am not unworthy of your sword, I must refer you to Lord Worth, whose ward I am!” announced Peregrine.

  “Eh?” said Lord Worcester. “Did you say you were Worth’s ward?”

  The gentleman in the greatcoat gave Peregrine back his card. “So you are my Lord Worth’s wards!” he said. “Dear me! And—er—are you at all acquainted with your guardian?”

  “That, sir, has nothing to do with you! We are on our way to visit his lordship now.”

  “Well,” said the gentleman softly, “you must present my compliments to him when you see him. Don’t forget.”

  “This is not to the point!” exclaimed Peregrine. “I have challenged you to fight, sir!”

  “I don’t think your guardian would advise you to press your challenge,” replied the gentleman with a slight smile.

  Judith laid a hand on her brother’s arm, and said coldly: “You have not told us yet by what name we may describe you to Lord Worth.”

  His smile lingered. “I think you will find
that his lordship will know who I am,” he said, and took Lord Worcester’s arm, and strolled with him into the coffee-room.

  Chapter IV

  It was with difficulty that Miss Taverner succeeded in preventing her brother from following the stranger and Lord Worcester into the coffee-room and there attempting to force an issue. He was out of reason angry, but upon Judith’s representing to him how such a scene could only end in a public brawl which must involve her, as the cause of it, he allowed himself to be drawn away, still declaring that he would at least know the stranger’s name.

  She pushed him up the stairs in front of her, and in the seclusion of her own room gave him an account of her adventure. It was not, after all, so very bad; there had been nothing to alarm her, though much to enrage. She made light of the circumstance of the stranger’s kissing her: he would bestow just such a careless embrace on a pretty chambermaid, she dared say. It was certain that he mistook her station in life.

  Peregrine could not be content. She had been insulted, and it must be for him to bring the stranger to book. As she set about the task of arguing him out of this determination, Judith realized that she had rather bring the gentleman to book herself. To have Peregrine settle the business could bring her no satisfaction; it must be for her to punish the stranger’s insolence, and she fancied that she could do so without assistance.

  When Peregrine went downstairs again to the coffee-room the strange gentleman had gone. The landlord, still harassed and busy with the company, could not tell Peregrine his name, nor even recall having served Lord Worcester. So many gentlemen had crowded into his inn to-day that he could not be blamed for forgetting half of them. As for a team of blood-chestnuts, he could name half a dozen such teams; they might all have drawn up at the George for anything he knew. Peregrine could only be sorry that Mr. Fitzjohn was already on his way back to London: he might have known the stranger’s name.

  By dinner-time Grantham was quiet. A few gentlemen stayed on overnight, but they were not many. Miss Taverner could go to bed in the expectation of a night’s unbroken repose.

  She thought herself reasonably safe from any further talk of the fight. It had been described to her in detail at least five times. There could be no more to say.

  There was no more to say. Peregrine realized it, and beyond exclaiming once or twice during breakfast next morning that he never hoped to see a better mill, and asking his sister whether he had told her of this or that hit, he did not talk of it. He was out of spirits; after the excitement of the previous day, Sunday in Grantham was insipid beyond bearing. He was cursed flat, was only sorry Judith’s scruples forbade them setting forward for London at once.

  There was nothing to do but go to church, and stroll about the town a little with his sister on his arm. Even the gig had had to be returned to its owner.

  They attended the service together, and after it walked slowly back to the George. Peregrine was all yawns and abstraction. He could not be brought to admire anything, was not interested in the history even of the Angel Inn, where it was said that Richard the Third had once lain. Judith must know he had never cared a rap for such fusty old stuff. He wished there were some way of passing the time; he could not think what he should do with himself until dinner.

  He was grumbling on in this strain when the pressure of Judith’s fingers on his arm compelled his attention. She said in a low voice: “Perry, the gentleman who gave up his rooms to us! I wish you would speak to him: we owe him a little extraordinary civility.”

  He brightened at once, and looked round him. He would be glad to shake hands with the fellow; might even, if Judith was agreeable, invite him to dine with them.

  The gentleman was approaching them, upon the same side of the road. It was evident that he had recognized them; he looked a little conscious, but did not seem to wish to stop. As he drew nearer he raised his hat and bowed slightly, and would have passed on if Peregrine, dropping his sister’s arm, had not stood in the way.

  “I beg pardon,” Peregrine said, “but I think you are the gentleman who was so obliging to us on Friday?”

  The other bowed again, and murmured something about it being of no moment.

  “But it was of great moment to us, sir,” Judith said. “I am afraid we thanked you rather curtly, and you may have thought us very uncivil.”

  He raised his eyes to her face, and said earnestly: “No, indeed not, ma’am. I was happy to be of service; it was nothing to me: I might command a lodging elsewhere. I beg you won’t think of it again.”

  He would have passed on, and seeing him so anxious to be gone Miss Taverner made no further effort to detain him. But Peregrine was less perceptive, and still barred the way. “Well, I’m glad to have met you again, sir. Say what you will, I am in your debt. My name is Taverner—Peregrine Taverner. This is my sister, as perhaps you know.”

  The gentleman hesitated for an instant. Then he said in rather a low voice: “I did know. That is to say, I heard your name mentioned.”

  “Ay, did you so? I daresay you might. But we did not hear yours, sir,” said Peregrine, laughing.

  “No, I was unwilling to—I did not wish to thrust myself upon your notice,” said the other. A smile crept into his eyes; he said a little ruefully: “My name is also Taverner.”

  “Good God!” cried Peregrine in great astonishment. “You don’t mean—you are not related to us, are you?”

  “I am afraid I am,” said Mr. Taverner. “My father is Admiral Taverner.”

  “Well, by all that’s famous!” exclaimed Peregrine. “I never knew he had a son!”

  Judith had listened with mixed feelings. She was amazed, at once delighted to find that she had so unexpectedly amiable a relative, and sorry that he should be the son of a man her father had mistrusted so wholeheartedly. His modesty, the delicacy with which he had refrained from instantly making himself known to them, his manners, which were extremely engaging, outweighed the rest. She held her hand out to him, saying in a friendly way: “Then we are cousins, and should know each other better.”

  He bowed over her fingers. “You are very good. I have wished to speak to you, but the disagreements—the estrangement, rather, between your father and mine made me diffident.”

  “Oh well, there’s no reason why that should concern us!” said Peregrine, brushing it aside with an airy gesture. “I daresay my uncle is as hasty as my father was, eh, Judith?”

  She could not assent to it; he should not be speaking of their father in that fashion to one who was quite a stranger to them.

  Mr. Taverner seemed to feel it also. He said: “I believe there were grave faults, but we can hardly judge—I certainly must not. You will understand—it is difficult for me.—But I have already said too much.”

  He addressed himself more particularly to Judith. She fancied there was a faint bitterness in the way he spoke. She found herself more than ever disposed to like him. His manner indicated—or so she thought—that he was aware of some behaviour on his father’s part which he could not approve. She respected him for his reticence; he seemed to feel just as he ought. It was with pleasure that she heard Peregrine invite him to dine with them.

  He was obliged to excuse himself: he was engaged with his friends; he wished it had been in his power to accept.

  He was obviously sincere; he looked disconsolate. For her part Judith was sadly disappointed, but she would neither press him, nor permit Peregrine to do so.

  Mr. Taverner bowed over her hand again, and held it a moment. “I am more than sorry. I should have liked excessively—But it must not be. I am promised. May I—you will be open with me, cousin—may I give myself the pleasure of calling on you in town?”

  She smiled and gave permission.

  “You have a guardian who will advise you,” he said. “I am not acquainted with Lord Worth, but I believe him to be generally very well-liked. He will put you in the way of everything. But if there is at any time anything I can do for you—if you should feel yourselves in want of
a friend—I hope you will remember that the wicked cousin would be only too happy to be of service.” It was said with an arch look, and the hint of a smile. He gave Peregrine his card.

  Peregrine held it between his fingers. “Thank you. We shall hope to see more of you, cousin. We mean to put up at Grillon’s for the present, but my sister has a notion of setting up house. I don’t know how it will end. But Grillon’s will find us.”

  Mr. Taverner noted it down in his pocket-book, bowed again, and took his leave of them. They watched him walk away down the street.

  “I’ll tell you what, Ju,” said Peregrine suddenly, “I wish he may tell me the name of his tailor. Did you notice his coat?”

  She had not; she had been aware only of a certain elegance. There was nothing of the fop about him.

  They strolled on towards the George wondering about their cousin. A glance at his card informed them that his name was Bernard, and that he was to be found at an address in Harley Street, which Miss Taverner knew, from having heard her father speak of an acquaintance living there, to be a respectable neighbourhood.

  The rest of the day passed quietly; they went to bed in good time to be in readiness for an early start in the morning.

  Consultation of the Traveller’s Guide convinced Miss Taverner at least that the rest of the journey could not be accomplished with comfort in one day. It was in vain that Peregrine argued that by setting forward at eight in the morning they could not fail to reach London by nine in the evening at the latest. Miss Taverner placed no dependence on his reckoning. The post-horses might, as he swore they would, cover nine miles an hour, but he made no allowance for changing them, or for the halts at the turnpikes, or for any other of the checks they would be sure to encounter. She had no wish to be traveling for as much as twelve hours at a stretch, and no wish to arrive in London after nightfall. Peregrine was forced to give way, though with an ill-grace.