Laura? Good God, how mistaken he had been in her! Manlike, he told himself, most unfairly, that somehow what he had now learnt made everything--anything possible. But before he had time to sit down, the door opened again, and Oliver Tropenell walked into the room. "I wish you to know," he began, without any preamble, "that Laura and I were married a week ago in London. She wished to wait--in fact it had been arranged that we should wait--till February or March. But to please me--only to please me, St. Amant--she put her own wishes, her own scruples aside. If there is any blame--the blame is entirely, _entirely_ mine." He waited a moment, and then went on rapidly: "As far as the rest of the world--the indifferent world--is concerned, it will believe that Laura and I were married when of course we should have been, after Godfrey Pavely had been dead a year. But Laura would like my mother to know. In fact she intends, I believe, to tell my mother to-morrow." Lord St. Amant found himself debating, with a kind of terrible self-questioning, whether now was the moment to speak to Oliver. "Of course I understand," he said shakily. "And I think Laura did quite right. But even so I suggest that nothing is said to your mother--yet. I have a very serious reason for asking you to beg Laura to keep your marriage absolutely secret." He was looking earnestly, painfully into the face of the younger man. Oliver Tropenell's countenance suddenly stiffened. It assumed a terrible, mask-like expression. "Had your journey to London," he asked slowly, "anything to do with my affairs? I thought so once--at dinner. Did Sir Angus Kinross send for you?" Lord St. Amant could not, did not, speak. But at last he bent his head. Then Oliver asked another question, quickly, in a matter-of-fact tone: "How many hours have I left?" "Till to-morrow, I mean till Friday, morning," the other answered in a stifled voice. He longed to go on, to tell the man standing by his side what Sir Angus had said as to his having "a sporting chance." But there was something in the expression of the rigid, mask-like face which forbade his saying that. And then Oliver Tropenell turned round and grasped his host's hand. "I owe you a lot of kindness," he muttered. "I used not to be grateful, but I am grateful, _now_. We'll get Laura and mother off--and then you'll tell me what I have to know." CHAPTER XXVIII Mrs. Tropenell stood by the window of the pretty, old-fashioned sitting-room which she had now occupied for over a week, and which she knew would be, in a special sense, her own room, after she had became Lady St. Amant. She was already dressed for the drive home with Laura Pavely. It was nearly twelve o'clock, and the car would be round in a few minutes. But she was waiting on, up here, for her son, for after breakfast Oliver had said casually: "I'll come up to your room for a moment, mother--I mean before you start for Freshley."