For a moment the words seemed to Sir Terence a fresh irrelevance; another attempt to change the subject. Then quite suddenly a light broke upon his mind, shedding a relief so great and joyous that he sought to check it almost in fear. “It is more than she has told me,” he answered steadily. “But then, no doubt, you enjoy her confidence.” Tremayne flashed him a wry glance and looked away again. “Alas!” he said, and fetched a sigh. “And is Sylvia the temptation, Ned?” Tremayne was silent for a while, little dreaming how Sir Terence hung upon his answer, how impatiently he awaited it. “Of course,” he said at last. “Isn’t it obvious to any one?” And he grew rhapsodical: “How can a man be daily in her company without succumbing to her loveliness, to her matchless grace of body and of mind, without perceiving that she is incomparable, peerless, as much above other women as an angel perhaps might be above herself?” Before his glum solemnity, and before something else that Tremayne could not suspect, Sir Terence exploded into laughter. Of the immense and joyous relief in it his secretary caught no hint; all he heard was its sheer amusement, and this galled and shamed him. For no man cares to be laughed at for such feelings as Tremayne had been led into betraying. “You think it something to laugh at?” he said tartly. “Laugh, is it?” spluttered Sir Terence. “God grant I don’t burst a blood-vessel.” Tremayne reddened. “When you’ve indulged your humour, sir,” he said stiffly, “perhaps you’ll consider the matter of this dispatch.” But Sir Terence laughed more uproariously than ever. He came to stand beside Tremayne, and slapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Ye’ll kill me, Ned!” he protested. “For God’s sake, not so glum. It’s that makes ye ridiculous.” “I am sorry you find me ridiculous.” “Nay, then, it’s glad ye ought to be. By my soul, if Sylvia tempts you, man, why the devil don’t ye just succumb and have done with it? She’s handsome enough and well set up with her air of an Amazon, and she rides uncommon straight, begad! Indeed it’s a broth of a girl she is in the hunting-field, the ballroom, or at the breakfast-table, although riper acquaintance may discover her not to be quite all that you imagine her at present. Let your temptation lead you then, entirely, and good luck to you, my boy.” “Didn’t I tell you, O’Moy,” answered the captain, mollified a little by the sympathy and good feeling peeping through the adjutant’s boisterousness, “that poverty is just hell. It’s my poverty that’s in the way.” “And is that all? Then it’s thankful you should be that Sylvia Armytage has got enough for two.” “That’s just it.” “Just what?” “The obstacle. I could marry a poor woman. But Sylvia--” “Have you spoken to her?” Tremayne was indignant. “How do you suppose I could?” “It’ll not have occurred to you that the lady may have feelings which having aroused you ought to be considering?”