"The Abbot is wanting to make us all do penance," laughed Fellowes, who some time since had parted with sobriety. "I'll read him these verses to pacify him; they would make an angry devil collapse into a chuckle. Mrs. Dearmer inspired them, so you may guess how wicked they are." "Always verses--nothing but verses," said Rosmore, who had drunk little and seemed to watch his companions with amusement. "No woman was ever won by poetry," said a girl in Fellowes' ear. "Try some other way." "What way?" The girl whispered to him, laughing the while. She was very pretty, very innocent to look upon. "Women must be carried by assault, gloriously, as a besieged city is," roared Branksome from the other end of the room. "The lover who attempts to starve them into surrender is a fool, and gets ridiculed for his pains. What do you say, Rosmore?" "Nothing. There are many ladies who can explain my methods better than I can." Mrs. Dearmer laughed, and desired a lesson forthwith. "My dear lady, there would be too many lovers to call me to account for my presumption," Rosmore answered. "Branksome is right," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Take a woman by force or not at all. She loves a desperate man. His desperation and overriding of all convention do homage to her. I never yet met the virtue that could stand against such an assault." "She is right, Sydney," whispered the girl to Fellowes, her hands suddenly clasped round his arm. Fellowes looked down into her face, and a strange expression came into his own. "I believe she is," he said almost passionately. "I believe she is. There's no woman so virtuous that--" "None," whispered the girl. Fellowes laughed, and shook himself free from her. "I'll drink to success, and then--" He stumbled as he rose to his feet, and, recovering himself, laughed at Sir John. "You shall have the verses another time, Abbot; I have other things to do just now." He called a servant, and talked to him in a low voice. "Yes, blockhead, I said the hall," he exclaimed in a louder voice. "The hall in ten minutes, and if she isn't there I'll come and let the life out of you for a lazy scoundrel who cannot carry a message. A drink with you, reverend Abbot--a liquid benediction on me." Lord Rosmore watched him, but Sir John took no notice of him. Sir John's thoughts were wandering, and had anyone been watching him closely they might have seen fear looking out of his eyes. A candle on a table near him spluttered and burnt crookedly. "That means disaster," he muttered, and then he turned to Lord Rosmore fiercely, though he spoke in an undertone. "You were a fool to let me bring her back." It was evident that he had made a similar statement to his companion before, for Rosmore showed no surprise or ignorance of his meaning. "I shall take her away presently, her lover and deliverer. In this case it is the best method." "And let her curse me?" "No. I shall promise to deliver you and bring about your redemption."