"More flowers from Van Buren? Let me look at them. A spray of lilies of the valley; how touching! He expects you to wear them at the opera. I think it's such a mistake to wear real flowers on an evening dress. They have a damp, chilly look, like fresh vegetables, at first, and when they begin to fade they make you look faded, too. Never mind, Daphne; I think perhaps you'd better wear them just to-night," said Valentia.

"Yesterday," said Daphne, "he sent me that basket of American Beauty roses. The day before he sent me Ella Wheeler Wilcox's poems."

Valentia smiled. "Poor darling!—I mean Van Buren's a poor darling, not you. You see, he's got the nice sort of Boston idea that a man ought only to send a girl flowers or books, or music. He thinks it's respectful. But, anyway, it's a very good sign."

"A good sign? But I thought there was so much of that sort of thing—I mean fuss and attention, to girls in America. I thought that didn't mean anything. I mean anything particular."

"Daphne, dear, don't blind yourself; don't shut your eyes to obvious facts. It isn't a matter of what you think or what I think, or of speculation at all. I happen to know that Van Buren is going to propose to you. He'll probably do it at Henley or at Sandown, or in the Park. He's certain to want it to be on a typically English background; but you can take it from me, for a dead cert, that it's bound to come."

Daphne sat down and looked serious.

"Valentia, it's no good. Don't let him do it. It will be so frightfully uncomfortable meeting him afterwards."

"Frightfully uncomfortable meeting the man to whom you're engaged? Why?"

"Because I shan't be engaged to him."

"Why not?"

"I shall never marry, Valentia."

Valentia stared at her in silence.

"What is your idea, darling? Why, you won't be eighteen till June. You can't be sure you'll never want to marry!"

"Well, I don't care for Van Buren."

"I thought you liked him so much?""Well, he seems all right at first. But I simply couldn't stand him always about."

"Couldn't you? Poor pet! But he mightn't be always about."

"Well, I couldn't stand his marked attention. Valentia, I hate marked attention."

"Do you, really? Who'd have thought it?"

"Well—and he'd always be so considerate and so thoughtful and so respectful!"

"That mightn't last when you were married," said Valentia consolingly.

"Perhaps he might not be so bad after we were once married.... But I shouldn't like to risk it. And the engagement! Oh! I couldn't simply stand the engagement! Just think of the ring, and the sentiment, and the fuss, and the letters! Oh, he'd enjoy it all so much! Oh, it would make me simply sick to see how pleased he'd be!"

"I know that feeling," said Valentia sympathetically, nodding her head.

"Oh, and don't you see how he'd think he was engaged to a well-brought-up, nice English girl who was a relation of Harry's, and knew all the right people, and all that sort of thing? And he'd take a big house—he's hinted this to me already—most likely in Park Lane—anyhow, something just like a millionaire in a book. It's all so dull, and cut-and-dried."

"Some of these cut-and-dried obvious things turn out quite jolly afterwards. It's the uncomfortable, romantic things that are more often failures. And you know, Daphne, you do like pretty things and clothes, and going everywhere, and—not only that, he's really such a dear, and a good sort, and so good-looking! And you'd put me into a very awkward position with Harry if you refuse him. But, of course, darling, you must do as you like."

"Well, then, Valentia, don't let me refuse him. I don't want to. Don't let it come to that. I'm sure I should loathe to hear him propose."

"Why?"

"It would make me sick."

"What can I tell Harry really as your reason for not being able to stand Van?"

"I'm sure I don't know!"

"He bores you," announced Valentia. "That's what's the matter. He doesn't amuse you."

"It isn't that, it isn't that!" cried Daphne vehemently. "I don't want to be amused. Do you think I like a man because he's clever, or funny, and always making jokes? That bores me frightfully. Harry's way of being lively and clever bores me to death! I don't want to marry a professional entertainer! No, Valentia, that's more the sort of thing you'd like. You're quite sorry Romer's not like that."

"I don't suggest that it would be ideal to marry Harry Lauder, Daphne dear. But wouldn't you really like someone fairly intelligent?"

"No. Why should I? Do you think I want to marry a man so horribly clever that he wouldn't understand a word I said?"

"Let's have it out, dear. What do you think you want?" Valentia answered herself; "It's Foster, of course! That dull, empty-headed, commonplace, hard-up, handsome boy. You can't marry him. He's just twenty-two, and has only a miserable allowance, and is in an expensive regiment, and you, darling, will only have three hundred a year. I should love to see you happy in your own way and having your wish, but don't you think it's a childish fancy? You're both children. Of course he hasn't suggested marriage, yet, has he? He knows perfectly well it's out of the question."

"Valentia! Darling! Why, he proposed to me the day we were introduced—at Prince's, and he's been doing it ever since."

"Oh, how utterly absurd of him! Well, anyhow, you must wait and see. Even if he could afford it, I don't think it would be a success. Why, there's nothing in the boy! What do you see in him?"

"I like the way he laughs," said Daphne, after a pause.

"Do you mind telling me one thing straight out? I'm being very nice to you about this, dear. I ought to scold you. But, at any rate, you must treat me with complete confidence."

"Of course, of course, dear."

"Tell me, he hasn't ever kissed you, has he?"

"Oh, Valentia!"

"I beg your pardon, darling. I felt sure he hadn't."

"Of course he has."

"He has!—Where?"

"How do you mean, where? Oh! at every dance where we've ever met. He always does, whenever he can. Is it so dreadful? He's such a boy!"

"Fancy your liking him enough for that!" said Valentia, stupefied.

"Oh, he's a darling; and the only person I ever could possibly marry."

"It's rather serious," said Valentia; "and poor Van who is so devoted!"

"He isn't, really," said Daphne decidedly.

"Don't you think so? Why?"

"Oh, the whole thing's an idea—the sort of thing he wants to do. It's not genuine."

"I should have thought the feelings of a man of thirty-four who could marry any one he chose would be more real than the fancy of a mere boy! Boys like anybody."

"Van isn't genuine like Cyril," said Daphne."Who on earth's Cyril?"

"Captain Foster."

Valentia walked round the room and then said—

"And you really suppose you're going to adore him all your life?"

"I suppose so. I really don't know. I know about now. Oh, Valentia, be a darling and let him come to the fancy ball with us." She kissed her. "And, oh, do tell Harry to explain to Van that it can't go on, that he must put it out of his head. Do, darling Valentia. Any well-brought-up young girl will do for him just as well!"

"And wouldn't any well-brought-up young girl do for Cyril?"

"I don't know. But only Cyril will do for me. Oh! the jolly way he has of saying 'Righto' and 'You're all right,' and calling me 'little girl!' Oh, he is a dear!"

"Oh, well, if he says such brilliant things as that!"

"It isn't what he says——"

"Oh, hush, Daphne, here is Romer. I shan't tell him a word about it. Well, I'll think it over." She called Daphne back and said in a half-hearted way—

"I suppose it wouldn't do just to sort of please Harry by marrying Van, and then seeing that silly boy now and then. You'd so soon get tired of him—but, no! that wouldn't be right. Forget that I said it—I don't mean it."

"I couldn't stand Van at all," said Daphne definitely, "whether I saw Cyril or not."

"Then you shan't be bothered with him. But can't you give up Cyril? I know I'm right about it. It isn't only the hard-upness and the impossibility—of course, I know he's got relations and all that—but, it's he himself. You'll get bored with him, too, in a different way."

"I like him so much now," pleaded Daphne.

Romer came in and Valentia merely told him at great length every word of the foregoing conversation with lavish comments by herself. Secretly Romer was bitterly disappointed when he realised that the possibility of his being left alone with his wife was more remote, but of course he agreed with Valentia, as she changed her mind a dozen times on the subject, and as usual the conversation ended in a telephone message to Harry to come round at once.