What escapes he had had! What a mercy he had not married that fiery Spaniard; that still more blazing Brazilian; that fickle Portuguese; that frivolous Mam’selle; that straw-coloured Dane. He began to realise that Mrs. Poskett was, like the Walk itself, a Harbour of Refuge. Here was no rhapsodical nonsense, but safe comfort, with a freehold house, solid furniture, and Four-hundred a year. Almost unconsciously his arms closed round her. She gave a great, contented sigh, as her head sank on his shoulder. To have drawn this response from him was, indeed, victory! I wonder what she would have done if she could have read his thoughts, if she could have seen the long procession of seductive females that was passing across his mental vision. I am convinced that the prospective title would have consoled her, and that she would have accepted his past for the sake of her future. They were abruptly aroused from their happiness, however. Unperceived by them, Lord Otford had entered the Walk. He had come slowly along the crescent, examining each house in turn, evidently trying to make up his mind to knock at one of them. He retraced his steps and had his hand on the handle of the Admiral’s gate, when his attention was attracted by the sound of murmuring voices. Evidently the voices of lovers. Quickly and angrily he came down, just in time to witness the Admiral implant a chaste but conclusive salute on Mrs. Poskett’s ample brow. "Peter!" he cried, scandalised. [Illustration: "PETER!" HE CRIED, SCANDALISED] *CHAPTER XIV* *IN WHICH MISS BARBARA PENNYMINT HEARS THE NIGHTINGALE, AND THE LAMPS ARE LIGHTED* [Illustration: Chapter XIV headpiece] The Admiral tried to start away from Mrs. Poskett, but though her hands slipped from his neck they clung to his arm. "Gobblessmysoul! Lord Otford!" he cried. Mrs. Poskett had a delicious foretaste of future greatness. Here, at the very threshold of her betrothal, was a real, live lord. It was well worth all she had been through. "Present me, Peter," she whispered, "and tell him." It is not so easy to tell an old friend you are going to be married, when you yourself are old enough to know better. The Admiral made a bad job of it. "Um—my neighbour—Mrs. Poskett—" he mumbled, weakly. "Widow of Alderman Poskett," she broke in. "And if Poskett had n’t died when he did—" The Admiral cut her short. He presented his friend to her. "Um—Lord Otford—" then he tried bravely to explain the equivocal attitude in which they had been discovered. "Um—I am—she is—we are—" He broke down under Otford’s eye. For Otford was looking at him in a confounded quizzical way, as much as to say "Do all the neighbours in Pomander Walk come out and kiss in the dark?" So the Admiral turned crestfallen to Mrs. Poskett, "No, hang it! You tell him!"