‘You’re going to be married,’ cried Nora, with feminine audacity, which set the whole table in a roar. ‘Well, you _have_ drawn on your imagination, Lady Ilfracombe, this time,’ said Sir Archibald. ‘Mr Portland, married! I should as soon think of my kestrel hawk going in for the domesticities.’ ‘Jack married,’ laughed the earl. ‘Come, you have indeed thought of the most incredible thing you could conceive. We shall have you writing a novel after this, Nora. You have evidently a gift for imagining the infinitely impossible.’ ‘There must be something very ridiculous about me, I fear,’ said Mr Portland, ‘that everyone thinks it such a far-fetched idea that I should settle down.’ ‘_You_ settle down, old man?’ replied Ilfracombe. ‘Yes, when you’re carried to your grave, not before. However, let us change so unprofitable a subject. You are booked then, Nora, for the day, so perhaps Lady Bowmant will permit me to be her cavalier.’ ‘With pleasure, Lord Ilfracombe! I shall be delighted to get you to myself for a little, since you are going to be cruel enough to desert us so soon.’ They all rose laughing from table after that, and dispersed to their separate apartments. It was pleasant and cool when Nora strolled out to the meadow to meet Jack Portland. Her thoughts were pleasant too. On the next day she was going to take her husband far away from the temptation of Mr Portland’s society, and she hoped before they met him again, to have persuaded Ilfracombe to give up play altogether. Those abominable letters would be destroyed by that time. She was determined that she would burn them to ashes as soon as ever she got them in her hands, and then the coast would be clear before her and Ilfracombe for the rest of their married life. She hummed the air of a popular ditty to herself as she walked through the rich thick grass, expecting to see Mr Portland every moment coming to meet her with the longed-for packet in his hands. Instead of which, a young woman plainly attired, came up to her and said,-- ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Ilfracombe, but are you waiting for Mr Portland?’ Nora turned round exclaiming angrily,-- ‘And what business is that of yours?’ when she recognised the speaker. ‘Oh, Miss Llewellyn, is that you? I--I--did not know you at first. Yes, I am waiting for Mr Portland, though I cannot think how you came to know it.’ ‘Because he told me so himself, and commissioned me to deliver this packet to you?’ Lady Ilfracombe grew very red, as she took the letters. ‘He commissioned you to give them to me? It is very strange. I do not understand. He said he should be here himself. What on earth made him give this packet to you?’ ‘Because I insisted on it; he could not help himself,’ replied Nell. ‘Lady Ilfracombe, do not be angry with me for mentioning it, but my bedroom at the farmhouse is over that occupied by Mr Portland, and I was at my window the night you visited him there, and heard all that passed between you about those letters.’