In the shop he found my Lord Godalming who was turning over some bright trinkets intended for a lady who was not his wife. Godalming was surly, eyeing Whitworth as he called for the best in necklaces that the shopman had to show. “Oh, yes,” said his lordship, “bring out the best for Sir Harry Whitworth. Jewels for Sir Harry and paste for me. I am only a lord.” “What’s put you out, Godalming?” “Ain’t the sight of your radiant face enough to put me out? I hate happiness in others.” “Then I can offer you the consolation of knowing that my happiness will not be visible to you long. I propose very shortly to go North, my lord, and to stay there.” Godalming flopped back against the counter like a fainting man who must support himself and, indeed, his astonishment was genuine enough. “Go North?” he gasped. “Are you gone stark mad?” “I have flattered myself to the contrary,” said Sir Harry, with complacency. “I have believed that I have recovered my senses.” “Rot me if I understand you,” said his lordship. “Yet you find me in the article of choosing a necklace.” “Damme, Whitworth, are there no women nearer than the North Pole? Is there no difference between gallantry and lunacy?” “I am thinking of marriage, my lord.” “Oh, Lud, yes, we’ve all to come to that. But we don’t come to it happily. We don’t think of it with our faces like the August sun. I’m the last man to believe your smirking face covers thoughts of marriage. I know too well what it does cover.” “Indeed? And what?” “What? Burn me if you are not the most exasperating man alive. Have you no recollections of a wager?” “I am bound to make you an admission, Godalming. Occupied with other matters, I had for the moment forgot our wager. But you need have no fears. I pay my debts.” “Pay? Where in the devil’s name have you been hiding yourself if you don’t know you’ve won the wager?” “Won it?” cried Sir Harry. “What else are you happy for?” “I give you my word I did not know of this, Godalming.” “The news has been about the town these last two hours. A courier has ridden in from Brighton summoning you to Prinny’s table to-morrow. He is tired of his shoe buckle and vows that you are right about it. They say he wrote you the recall with his own gouty hand. There’s condescension, damn you, and you let me be the one to tell you news of it, me that loses a thousand by it!”