"I am not." Indignantly. "But I think you might--after three weary months, that to me, at least, were twelve--you might----" "You want me to--kiss you?" says Cecil, promptly, but with a rising blush. "Well, I will, then." Lifting her head, she presses her lips to his with a fervor that takes him utterly by surprise. "Cecil," whispers he, growing a little pale, "do you mean it?" "Mean what?" Coloring crimson now, but laughing also. "I mean this: if we don't go down-stairs soon luncheon will be cold. And, remember, I hold you to your engagement. You dine with me to-day. Is not that so?" "You know how glad I shall be." "Well, I hope now," says Cecil, "you intend to reform, and give up traveling aimlessly all over the unknown world at stated intervals. I hope for the future you mean staying at home like a respectable Christian." "If I had a home. You can't call one's club a home, can you? I would stay anywhere,--with you." "I could not possibly undertake such a responsibility. Still, I should like you to remain in London, where I could look after you a little bit now and then, and keep you in order. I adore keeping people in order. I am thrown away," says Cecil, shaking her flaxen head sadly. "I know I was born to rule." "You do a great deal of it even in your own limited sphere, don't you?" says her husband, laughing. "I know at least one unfortunate individual who is completely under your control." "No. I am dreadfully cramped. But come; in spite of all the joy I naturally feel at your safe return, I find my appetite unimpaired. Luncheon is ready. Follow me, my friend. I pine for a cutlet." They eat their cutlets _tete-a-tete_, and with evident appreciation of their merits; the servants regarding the performance with intense though silent admiration. In their opinion (and who shall dispute the accuracy of a servant's opinion?), this is the beginning of the end. When luncheon is over, Lady Stafford rises. "I am going for my drive," she says. "But what is to become of you until dinner-hour?" "I shall accompany you." Audaciously. "You! What! To have all London laughing at me?" "Let them. A laugh will do _them_ good, and _you_ no harm. How can it matter to you?" "True. It cannot. And after all to be laughed at one must be talked about. And to be talked about means to create a sensation. And I should like to create a sensation before I die. Yes, Sir Penthony,"--with a determined air,--"you shall have a seat in my carriage to-day." "And how about to-morrow?" "To-morrow probably some other fair lady will take pity on you. It would be much too slow,"--mischievously--"to expect you to go driving with your wife every day." "I don't think I can see it in that light. Cecil,"--coming to her side, and with a sudden though gentle boldness, taking her in his arms,--"when are you going to forgive me and take me to your heart?" "What is it you want, you tiresome man?" asks Cecil, with a miserable attempt at a frown.