On the following morning, Lord Tottlebury sat as arbitrator, gave an impartial consideration to both sides of the question, and awarded that George should apologise for his charges, and Gerald for his violence. Lord Tottlebury argued the case with ability, and his final judgment was able and conclusive. Unfortunately, however, misled by the habit before mentioned of writing to the papers about matters other than those which immediately concerned him, Lord Tottlebury forgot that neither party had asked him to adjudicate, and, although Maud Neston was quite convinced by his reasoning, his award remained an opinion in vacuo; and the two clear and full letters which he wrote expressing his views were consigned by their respective recipients to the waste-paper basket. Each of the young men thanked Lord Tottlebury for his kind efforts, but feared that the unreasonable temper displayed by the other would render any attempt at an arrangement futile. Lord Tottlebury sighed, and sadly returned to his article on “What the Kaiser should do next.” He was in a hurry to finish it, because he also had on hand a reply to Professor Dressingham’s paper on “The Gospel Narrative and the Evolution of Crustacea in the Southern Seas.”

After his outburst, Gerald Neston had allowed himself to be taken home quietly, and the next morning he had so far recovered his senses as to promise Sidmouth Vane that he would not again have recourse to personal violence. He said he had acted on a momentary impulse—which Vane did not believe,—and, at any rate, nothing of the kind need be apprehended again; but as for apologising, he should as soon think of blacking George’s boots. In fact, he was, on the whole, well pleased with himself, and, in the course of the day, went off to Neaera to receive her thanks and approval.

He found her in very low spirits. She had been disappointed at the failure of her arrangement with George, and half inclined to rebel at Gerald’s peremptory veto on any attempt at hushing up the question. She had timidly tried the line of pooh-poohing the whole matter, and Gerald had clearly shown her that, in his opinion, it admitted of no such treatment. She had not dared to ask him seriously if he would marry her, supposing the accusation were true. A joking question of the kind had been put aside as almost in bad taste, and, at any rate, ill-timed. Consequently she was uneasy, and ready to be very miserable on the slightest provocation. But to-day Gerald came in a different mood. He was triumphant, aggressive, and fearless; and before he had been in the room ten minutes, he broached his new design—a design that was to show conclusively the esteem in which he held the vile slanders and their utterer.

“Be married directly! Oh, Gerald!”

“Why not, darling? It will be the best answer to them.”

“What would your father say?”

“I know he will approve. Why shouldn’t he?”

“But—but everybody is talking about me.”

“What do I care?”

It suits some men to be in love, and Gerald looked very well as he threw out his defiance urbi et orbi. Neaera was charmed and touched.

“Gerald dear, you are too good—you are, indeed,—too good to me and too good for me.”

Gerald said, in language too eloquent to be reproduced, that nobody could help being “good” to her, and nobody in the world was good enough for her.

“And are you content to take me entirely on trust?”

“Absolutely.”

“While I am under this shadow?”

“You are under no shadow. I take your word implicitly, as I would take it against gods and men.”

“Ah, I don’t deserve it.”

“Who could look in your eyes”—Gerald was doing so—“and think of deceit? Why do you look away, sweetheart?”

“I daren’t—I daren’t!”

“What?”

“Be—be—trusted like that!”

Gerald smiled. “Very well; then you shan’t be. I will treat you as if—as if I doubted you. Then will you be satisfied?”

Neaera tried to smile at this pleasantry. She was kneeling by Gerald’s chair as she often did, looking up at him.

“Doubted me?” she said.

“Yes, since you won’t let your eyes speak for you, I will put you to the question. Will that be enough?”

Poor Neaera! she thought it would be quite enough.

“And I will ask you, what I have never condescended to ask yet, dearest, if there’s a word of truth in it all?” Gerald, still playfully, took one of her hands and raised it aloft. “Now look at me and say—what shall be your oath?”

Neaera was silent. This passed words; every time she spoke she made it worse.

“I know,” pursued Gerald, who was much pleased with his little comedy. “Say this, ‘On my honour and love, I am not the girl.’”

Why hadn’t she let him alone with his nonsense about her eyes? That was not, to Neaera’s thinking, as bad as a lie direct. “On her honour and love!” She could not help hesitating for just a moment.

“I am not the girl, on my honour and love.” Her words came almost with a sob, a stifled sob, that made Gerald full of remorse and penitence, and loud in imprecations on his own stupidity.

“It was all a joke, sweetest,” he pleaded; “but it was a stupid joke, and it has distressed you. Did you dream I doubted you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, say you knew it was a joke.”

“Yes, dear, I know it was,—of course it was; but it—it rather frightened me.”

“Poor child! Never mind; you’ll be amused when you think of it presently. And, my darling, it really, seriously, does make me happier. I never doubted, but it is pleasant to hear the truth from your own sweet lips. Now I am ready for all the world. And what about the day?”

“The day?”

“Of course you don’t know what day! Shall it be directly?”

“What does ‘directly’ mean?” asked Neaera, mustering a rather watery smile.

“In a week.”

“Gerald!”

But, after the usual negotiations, Neaera was brought to consent to that day three weeks, provided Lord Tottlebury’s approval was obtained.

“And, please, don’t quarrel with your cousin any more!”

“I can afford to let him alone now.”

“And—— Are you going, Gerald?”

“No time to lose. I’m off to see the governor, and I shall come back and fetch you to dine in Portman Square. Good-bye for an hour, darling!”

“Gerald, suppose——”

“Well!”

“If—if—— No, nothing. Good-bye, dear; and——”

“What is it, sweet?”

“Nothing—well, and don’t be long.”

Gerald departed in raptures. As soon as he was out of the room, the tailless cat emerged from under the sofa. He hated violent motion of all kinds, and lovers are restless beings. Now, thank heaven! there was a chance of lying on the hearth-rug without being trodden upon!

“Did you hear that, Bob?” asked Neaera. “I—I went the whole hog, didn’t I?”

Lord Tottlebury, who was much less inflexible than he seemed, did not hold out long against Gerald’s vehemence, and the news soon spread that defiance was to be hurled in George’s face. The Bull’s-eye was triumphant. Isabel Bourne and Maud Neston made a hero of Gerald and a heroine of Neaera. Tommy Myles hastened to secure the position of “best man,” and Sidmouth Vane discovered and acknowledged a deep worldly wisdom in Gerald’s conduct.

“Of course,” said he to Mr. Blodwell, on the terrace, “if it came out before the marriage, he’d stand pledged to throw her over, with the cash. But afterwards! Well, it won’t affect the settlement, at all events.”

Mr. Blodwell said he thought Gerald had not been actuated by this motive.

“Depend upon it, he has,” persisted Vane. “Before marriage, the deuce! After marriage, a little weep and three months on the Riviera!”

“Oh, I suppose, if it came out after marriage, George would hold his tongue.”

“Do you, by Jove? Then he’d be the most forgiving man in Europe. Why, he’s been hunted down over the business—simply hunted down!”

“That’s true. No, I suppose he’d be bound to have his revenge.”

“Revenge! He’d have to justify himself.”

Mr. Blodwell had the curiosity to pursue the subject with George himself.

“After the marriage? Oh, I don’t know. I should like to score off the lot of them.”

“Naturally,” said Mr. Blodwell.

“At any rate, if I find out anything before, I shall let them have it. They haven’t spared me.”

“Anything new?”

“Yes. They’ve got the committee at the Themis to write and tell me that it’s awkward to have Gerald and me in the same club.”

“That’s strong.”

“I have to thank Master Tommy for that. Of course it means that I’m to go; but I won’t. If they like to kick me out, they can.”

“What’s Tommy Myles so hot against you for?”

“Oh, those girls have got hold of him—Maud, and Isabel Bourne.”

“Isabel Bourne?”

“Yes,” said George, meeting Mr. Blodwell’s questioning eye. “Tommy has a mind to try his luck there, I think.”

“Vice you retired.”

“Well, retired or turned out. It’s like the army, you know; the two come to pretty much the same thing.”

“You must console yourself, my boy,” said Mr. Blodwell, slyly. He heard of most things, and he had heard of Mrs. Pocklington’s last dinner-party.

“Oh, I’m an outcast now. No one would look at me.”

“Don’t be a humbug, George. Go and see Mrs. Pocklington, and, for heaven’s sake let me get to my work.”

It was Mr. Blodwell’s practice to inveigle people into long gossips, and then abuse them for wasting his time; so George was not disquieted by the reproach. But he took the advice, and called in Grosvenor Square. He found Mrs. Pocklington in, but she was not alone. Her visitor was a very famous person, hitherto known to George only by repute,—the Marquis of Mapledurham.

The Marquis was well known on the turf and also as a patron of art, but it is necessary to add that more was known of him than was known to his advantage. In fact, he gave many people the opportunity of saying they would not count him among their acquaintances; and he gave very few of them the chance of breaking their word. He and Mrs. Pocklington amused one another, and, whatever he did, he never said anything that was open to complaint.

For some time George talked to Laura. Laura, having once come over to his side, was full of a convert’s zeal, and poured abundant oil and wine into his wounds.

“How could I ever have looked at Isabel Bourne when she was there?” he began to think.

“Mr. Neston,” said Mrs. Pocklington, “Lord Mapledurham wants to know whether you are the Mr. Neston.”

“Mrs. Pocklington has betrayed me, Mr. Neston,” said the Marquis.

“I am one of the two Mr. Nestons, I suppose,” said George, smiling.

“Mr. George Neston?” asked the Marquis.

“Yes.”

“And you let him come here, Mrs. Pocklington?”

“Ah, you know my house is a caravanserai. I heard you remark it yourself the other day.”

“I shall go,” said the Marquis, rising. “And, Mrs. Pocklington, I shall be content if you say nothing worse of my house. Good-bye, Miss Laura. Mr. Neston, I shall have a small party of bachelors to-morrow. It will be very kind if you will join us. Dinner at eight.”

“See what it is to be an abused man,” said Mrs. Pocklington, laughing.

“In these days the wicked must stand shoulder to shoulder,” said the Marquis.

George accepted; in truth, he was rather flattered. And Mrs. Pocklington went away for quite a quarter of an hour. So that, altogether, he returned to the opinion that life is worth living, before he left the house.