“Grenadine,” said Sarah relentlessly. “All nice and red and sweet. I love it.” Physically and mentally, the epicure writhed. . . . Then he gave the order. Sarah smiled maddeningly. “That was very sweet of you, Virgil—darling.” “Not at all, my love”—shakily. “When we’re—er married—blast this peach!” he added savagely, plunging his hands in water. “I suppose you couldn’t do with a walnut?” “Get down to it,” said Sarah shortly. “‘When we’re married,’ you were saying.” “Was I? Oh, yes. Well, when——By the way, I’d better announce it, hadn’t I?” “I suppose so,” said Sarah. “Right,” said Virgil. “The usual thing, I take it. ‘A marriage has been arranged, and——’” He stopped short and looked at her. Sarah smiled back. “It has, with a vengeance,” she flashed. “Hasn’t it?” Virgil wiped his hands and lifted his glass. “Your very good health, Sarah. I’m sorry you can’t marry George. But I’ll do my best.” He drank luxuriously. Sarah lifted her grenadine. “And yours, Virgil. I know your feelings exactly. As for poor June, words fail me. But, since it can’t be helped, I’ll do what I can.” “We shall get through—dear,” said Pardoner stoutly. “And—and you’ve got a very sweet way.” “That,” said Sarah, “is thanks to the grenadine. And now get on with that peach. Where shall we live?” she added artlessly. “Lincolnshire?” Pardoner choked. Then— “I’m sure,” he said stiffly, “it would have been your guardian’s——” “—and your uncle’s——” “—wish that we should live at Palfrey.” “Is there any reason why we should consider his wishes?” “Hang it,” said Virgil. “The old fellow’s left us six hundred thousand.” “And blighted our lives.” “Oh, not ‘blighted,’” said Pardoner. “You can’t blight three hundred thousand quid. You can make it a bit sticky, but you can’t blight a sum like that. It’s—it’s invulnerable.” “I was speaking of our lives,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Not our legacies.” “Same thing,” said Pardoner comfortably, passing a somewhat rugged sculpture across the table. “Same thing. You see. The two are indistinguishable. Supposing another Will turned up, leaving the lot to me.” Sarah shuddered. “Exactly. Your life would become a blank—same as your bank balance.” “Not for long,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Why?” “Because,” said Sarah, with a dazzling smile. “I should sue you for breach of promise.” Her companion paled. “The damages would be—er—painfully easy to assess, wouldn’t they?” Pardoner frowned. Then his face cleared. “The contingency,” he said, “is happily remote. If it ever happened, I should give you half, because you’ve the sporting instinct.” “How much,” said Sarah dreamily, “shall you give June?” The other started. “June? Oh, June’s all right. She—she wouldn’t expect anything. I—I shouldn’t like to offer it. It’ld be—er—indelicate.” Miss Vulliamy sighed.