“If we go together and make him see us both: if he sees he has nothing to be ashamed of in you—rather everything to be proud of; if you are only near him, you will not have to speak a word, and I’m certain—as certain as that I live—that in a week we shall be settled happily at Raynham. I know my father so well, Lucy. Nobody knows him but I.” Lucy asked whether Mr. Harley did not. “Adrian? Not a bit. Adrian only knows a part of people, Lucy; and not the best part.” Lucy was disposed to think more highly of the object of her conquest. “Is it he that has been frightening you, Lucy?” “No, no, Richard; oh, dear no!” she cried, and looked at him more tenderly because she was not quite truthful. “He doesn’t know my father at all,” said Richard. But Lucy had another opinion of the wise youth, and secretly maintained it. She could not be won to imagine the baronet a man of human mould, generous, forgiving, full of passionate love at heart, as Richard tried to picture him, and thought him, now that he beheld him again through Adrian’s embassy. To her he was that awful figure, shrouded by the midnight. “Why are you so harsh?” she had heard Richard cry more than once. She was sure that Adrian must be right. “Well, I tell you I won’t go without you,” said Richard, and Lucy begged for a little more time. Cupid now began to grumble, and with cause. Adrian positively refused to go on the water unless that element were smooth as a plate. The South-west still joked boisterously at any comparison of the sort; the days were magnificent; Richard had yachting engagements; and Lucy always petitioned to stay to keep Adrian company, conceiving it her duty as hostess. Arguing with Adrian was an absurd idea. If Richard hinted at his retaining Lucy, the wise youth would remark: “It’s a wholesome interlude to your extremely Cupidinous behaviour, my dear boy.” Richard asked his wife what they could possibly find to talk about. “All manner of things,” said Lucy; “not only cookery. He is so amusing, though he does make fun of The Pilgrim’s Scrip, and I think he ought not. And then, do you know, darling—you won’t think me vain?—I think he is beginning to like me a little.” Richard laughed at the humble mind of his Beauty. “Doesn’t everybody like you, admire you? Doesn’t Lord Mountfalcon, and Mr. Morton, and Lady Judith?” “But he is one of your family, Richard.” “And they all will, if she isn’t a coward.” “Ah, no!” she sighs, and is chidden. The conquest of an epicure, or any young wife’s conquest beyond her husband, however loyally devised for their mutual happiness, may be costly to her. Richard in his hours of excitement was thrown very much with Lady Judith. He consulted her regarding what he termed Lucy’s cowardice. Lady Judith said: “I think she’s wrong, but you must learn to humour little women.” “Then would you advise me to go up alone?” he asked, with a cloudy forehead.