"Do you think so, Peggie? So do not I. If I do have to repent, it shall not be for an opportunity missed for a coward scruple. Here, let me tie this long, black veil over your hood, Peg; it will make you look like a mourner, and with your handkerchief to your face, you might defy even the sharp eyes of Lowton herself." *CHAPTER VI* *A MATTER OF TITLE* As Peggie, veiled and muffled up, with the curtains of her sedan-chair drawn—but not closely enough to interfere with her outlook—was borne toward the city, she passed a handsome chariot, driven rapidly in the opposite direction. The glimpse she caught of the occupants caused her great amusement. Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert was seated beside a young man, richly dressed and handsome, but sallow and hollow-cheeked. This was Lord Beachcombe, whose marriage with Lady Prudence Brooke had been abruptly broken off about a year ago, in consequence of a scandal raised by a certain Captain O’Keefe, who considered himself ill-used by the lady, and whose insulting strictures upon her conduct led to a fatal duel with Sir Geoffrey, and resulted in the promise of her hand to the champion of her honor. The sight of Prue’s former and present lovers together, struck Peggie as particularly funny, in connection with her own queer errand. If she could have overheard their conversation, it would have given additional zest to the situation. "Faith," Lord Beachcombe was saying, "if you are really bent on marrying the lovely widow, I wish you better luck than I had." "I _am_ bent on it, with my whole heart and soul," Sir Geoffrey replied, doggedly rather than enthusiastically. "_I_ am not a man to be turned from my purpose by an idle word." The other laughed carelessly. "No man in your condition takes warning by other men’s misfortunes," he remarked. "But there’s still hope for you; you are not her husband yet." "No, but I swear I will be, and soon, too!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "I won her at the sword’s point, and by the God above us, I’ll wear her!" "Will you bet?" demanded the other, with a sneer. Gambling was the most fashionable vice of that day, and few subjects were too great or too small to hang a wager upon. "Aye, Lord Beachcombe, if you want to lose money, I’ll not deny you the opportunity," laughed Sir Geoffrey, recovering his good humor. "What do you want to wager? Fifty guineas? a hundred?" "Fifty or a hundred guineas is all too small a wager for so important a matter," said Lord Beachcombe slowly, as though considering the exact sum demanded by the occasion. "Let us say a thousand—or five thousand." Sir Geoffrey was staggered by the amount, but he was as ardent a gambler as his companion, and reputed a much luckier one. "As your lordship pleases," he replied, with well-assumed indifference. "But I warn you that the higher the stake, the more certain I shall be to win it, even if I have to carry the lady off by force."