“Well, she has, rather,” he answered, dryly. “She has promised to be my wife!” “My dear child!” The loving mother rushed to fold her daughter in a close embrace, to which Victoria submitted with silent scorn. “This is sudden, but I cannot say it takes me altogether by surprise. A mother’s eye sees so much,” added the marchioness, plaintively, implying that she had long watched over her child’s secret love and seen it grow from day to day. Despencer stood viewing the touching scene with an ironical smile. “She will overdo this if she isn’t careful,” was his unspoken comment. The marchioness turned to her new son. “I give her to you, John, because I know you will make her happy. If I had had the choice of a son-in-law, there is no one I should have preferred to you.” As a bald matter of fact, there had been a slight element of choice about it. Hammond bowed with due gratitude. “Let me offer my congratulations, too, if I may,” Despencer put in. “This sort of thing quite touches me.” “Thank you,” said Hammond, curtly. “I hope to have the pleasure of speaking to the marquis in the morning,” he added to the marquis’s wife. “I will prepare him for it. I am sure you will find him ready to welcome you as a son,” responded the marchioness, with enthusiasm. Victoria rose from her seat. “There, that will do, mother. You are not good at domestic sentiment; it isn’t in your line. Can’t we go and bill and coo somewhere else?” she said to her betrothed. “What a child!” murmured her parent, still deeply affected. “Take care of her, John.” John intimated his disposition to do so by a bow, and the marchioness and Despencer found themselves alone. The latter hastened to console his companion. “Don’t mind her, marchioness. You did that very well, indeed. The maternal embrace was perfect.” The marchioness sat down on the divan and heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. “You may be as rude as you like now,” she observed, mildly, “because you have been so clever and wicked in managing this for me. I suppose it is quite settled now. He won’t go back to that horrid girl again?” Despencer placed himself on the seat beside the marchioness at the exact distance which he thought safe, as he replied: “I think not. The game is not quite finished yet. I am still waiting to play my ace of trumps.” The marchioness was too full of her triumph to heed the last words. “We had better announce this in the papers at once,” she remarked, pursuing her own line of thought. “One cannot make too sure.” “You will have to wait till he has seen Lord Severn,” suggested the prudent Despencer. The marchioness made a grimace. “I suppose so. How tiresome all this etiquette is! I sometimes wish I could go and be a curate’s wife in the country.” This pathetic yearning failed to move the callous listener. He retorted: