"Oh, I say! You are a caution!" was her only remark. But she did not laugh, and as she hastily did a little amateur coiffing, he thought she looked slightly annoyed. At any rate, she hadn't much more to say to him, and he went back to London almost immediately, feeling quite absurdly agitated about such an unimportant trifle. * * * * * An hour later, when quietly at home in his study, Vaughan was suddenly seized by that species of madness that has been known to wreck careers, "to launch a thousand ships," to cause all kinds of chaos. It was that terrible _once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine-I-must-and-shall-possess-her_ feeling in its most acute form. Most men have known it at some time in their lives. He thought of Harry de Freyne, and felt noble and superior in contrast to what _his_ conduct would have been, as he sat down and wrote with intense pleasure-- "Darling Gladys, "I love you. Will you marry me? Please try. I'm writing to your father. Don't keep me waiting long for the answer. "Yours for always, "GILLIE." He then wrote a long and sensible letter to Mr. Brill; all business, respect, and urgency, saying he knew that Gladys was very young, but that he would make her happy, and so forth. These two letters he sent off by express messenger in a taxicab to the "Bald-faced Stag," and then sat down to dinner. What a dinner! And what an evening he spent! He planned a long journey--what fun to show the child new places and things! Why shouldn't he marry the charming, refined, and beautiful daughter of an hotel-keeper? He decided even on alterations in the house, and he meant to be ecstatically happy. What did he care for people? He had never lived either to _epater_ the _bourgeois_ or to satisfy the ideal of the gentleman next door. He was going to do something _he_ liked!... * * * * * He woke up the next morning at six o'clock with a ghastly chilly horror on him. What had he done? Had he been mad? To marry Miss Brill, the daughter of the landlord of a little suburban public-house! A girl of sixteen, pretty enough certainly, but with no pretensions to being a lady, no possibility of having anything in common with him. But it wasn't so much the question of what people would say--of course, most of the women he knew would drop him, and the men would laugh at him and make love to her--but, how long would it last? How long would this strange mania endure? Perhaps not a week. The poor child would have an awful time, too. She was much happier as she was. Well! He was a sportsman, and had taken the risk. He must wait now. At the back of his mind he was wondering how he could get out of it. He had not to wait long. His letters were answered by the first post. Evidently, the "Bald-faced Stag" had been kept up late that night to reply in time.