Marjorie glanced at the yachting party, sauntering contentedly, a hundred yards or so in front, among the lights and shadows of the orchard-bordered road. There was Lord Rex, outrageously devoted in manner to Rosie Verschoyle, with whom he loitered apart. And there, a little divided also from the rest, was Geff Arbuthnot, well entertained, one must surmise, by the shallow talk, fascinated by the pink-and-white charms of Ada, the most soulless and the prettiest of the de Carteret family. ‘If such a revolution takes place, a dozen years hence, that I marry,’ she observed, after consideration, ‘the husband I choose shall be a head-and-shoulders taller than myself, morally. No singer of ballad sentiment, no popinjay, with yellow moustache, and a sword, and uniform, next time. If I take to myself a master, he shall be a man--with a temper, a will, a purpose in life, all nobler than my own.’ Such a husband as Geoffrey would be! The thought obeyed the wish in Dinah’s heart. ‘And I must be first--first in his affection. I would have no rivals, past or present. If Bayard himself walked the earth and wished to marry me, Marjorie Bartrand, I would ask him if I was first. Yes, Mrs. Arbuthnot, I would ask Chevalier Bayard himself if he had looked at any other woman before he loved me; and if he had, and though my heart broke for it, I would refuse him.’ A red light broke on Marjorie’s cheeks, her eyes dilated. The likeness to old Andros, which came out in every moment of strong emotion, was never more marked than now. ‘If we ask too much we may lose all,’ said Dinah, not perhaps without a pang of dread as visions of Geoffrey’s youth rose before her. ‘I never heard anything about this gentleman.’ ‘Chevalier Bayard? the first gentleman the world has known!’ ‘But if he was put upon his word, yes, and though he stood with his bride before the altar, I think Chevalier Bayard might have to confess to some foolish fancy in the past.’ ‘I spoke of love, not of foolishness,’ exclaimed Marjorie Bartrand. Then, as though quickly repenting of her warmth: ‘We have talked more than enough,’ she cried, ‘about a peradventure that will never become fact. Let us forget, with all speed, that so much nonsense has been spoken.’ But the conversation was one which neither of these young women could, by any means, forget while she lived. CHAPTER XXIV REX BASIRE’S HUMOUR