Next day, Arthur Wilverley rode over to the Manor. As he rode he gave a loose rein to introspection, to which the easy canter of a good hack lends itself. Strenuously as he would have denied it, this honest fellow had hitherto cantered as easily through life, taking all fences in his stride. And they had been small fences. He was now approaching what he deemed to be the biggest fence which as yet he had tried to negotiate—marriage. It annoyed him a little that he was not more excited. A nodding acquaintance with the best fiction had encouraged him to expect as a lover thrills and ardours which unaccountably had not been experienced. Why? Was he different from other men? Had he strolled into this attachment at an age when common sense overruled sentiment? Had he atrophied, by disuse, certain nerve-centres quite wrongly supposed by novelists to be cardiac? He had never, for example, even in his salad days, contemplated the possibility of a world well lost for love. But he had known men, lots of them, who had “chucked” everything—position, honour, self-respect—to gratify one colossal overwhelming desire. Amazing ...!

Too honest to befool himself or anybody else, he was well aware that if he “took a toss” over this next fence he would pick himself up, mount his horse, and canter on as before. He might feel stiff and sore—doubtless he would; he might funk that particular fence ever after, but his well-ordered world would not fall into chaos.

This conviction, however, underlay another. Confidence in his horsemanship sustained our cavalier. He did not anticipate a toss. Cicely—bless her!—had been rushed the first time—his fault. It rather pleased him to think that she, like himself, could exhibit restraint and common sense. Once, some five years before, he had officiated as best man to a friend younger than himself, a bit of a thruster. The thruster, over a glass of champagne, had waxed confidential, describing a tempestuous wooing and an unconditional surrender. Wilverley could recall his friend’s exact words: “When I popped, she gave a sort of yelp and rushed at me.”

At the time Wilverley had laughed, but later the lady in question had yelped and rushed at another fellow. She was built that way. Cicely would not yelp or rush. He pictured her yielding with virginal modesty to the restrained advances of her lover, blushing adorably. Wilverley had rehearsed the scene. He beheld himself and Cicely on a bench in the more secluded part of the topiary garden, screened by yew hedges from inquisitive eyes of gardeners. Then he would tell his tale. She would listen demurely, with downcast eyes. The amorini in the garden would approve this gentle wooing. Presently he would take her little hand in his. When he ventured to kiss her cheek, she might turn her lips from him. Yes; being a Chandos, she would. In his pocket, in tissue paper, lay the filmy hanky. At the right moment he would show it to her. There, would be pleasant talk about the choice of an engagement ring. Later they would seek together Lady Selina, and receive the maternal sanction and benediction....

Mrs. Roden had given her push the day before. Six weeks had elapsed since Brian’s death. She had considered the propriety of urging her brother to propose again by letter, rejecting such consideration after matured thought. Personality counted enormously in these affairs. Arthur had a “way” with him. He “loomed up.” Young girls of the twentieth century had just begun to enjoy the privileges of independent thought and action. Mrs. Roden rejoiced that it was so. Still——! At this point the adjuster paused to reflect upon the immense change in Cicely’s fortunes. Alone in her room at Danecourt, turning from a mournful present to a more alluring future, Cicely might well hesitate before she imperilled her freedom. Alone with Wilverley, dominated by him, conscious that she had encouraged him, the right answer must be forthcoming.

Accordingly, Mrs. Roden had said at luncheon:

“Lady Selina returns to Upworthy to-morrow.”

“So Cicely told me.”

“Ah! She has written to you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you will go over and pay your respects at once.”

“If I can spare the time——”

“My dear Arthur, try to rise to your full stature.”

Wilverley replied briskly:

“Now, Mary, out with it. What’s in your busy mind?”

“Concern for others. Concern for you. There are moments, Arthur, when you impress me as being a big boy. At such moments I feel maternal.”

“Forrard! Forrard!”

“I told you some months ago to—to—let me see, what did I say?”

“You told me to ‘go’ for Cicely—and I did. She turned me down. No complaints! I acted prematurely.”

“From what you told me she encouraged you to try again.”

“And I shall.”

“Quite. The right moment has come. Cicely must have recovered from her bereavement. If I know anything of my sex”—her tone justified the assumption that what Mrs. Roden did not know upon that fascinating subject was negligible—“Cicely is ripe for the plucking.”

“You talk of her as if she were a goose,” he said.

“Pray don’t interrupt me! Cicely is a sensible girl, thank God! She is also a good girl, fully alive to the responsibilities of marriage. As a potential mother——”

Wilverley held up a hand.

“Don’t be obstetric, Mary, please.”

“What a word——! I am never that. However——! How you heckle my thoughts! I repeat, Cicely is ripe for the plucking. You have only to stretch forth your hand. Lady Selina will be much gratified if you call at once. I refrain from accompanying you for obvious reasons. The weather is settled. I regard that as a sign. I am quite sure that Cicely has been dull and depressed at Danecourt Castle.”

“Abbey.”

“I call it a feudal stronghold. Probably she was bored to tears. She comes home hankering for a change—any change. You appear—not wearing that tie——”

“You shall select my tie.”

“Thank you, Arthur. You appear—the perfect knight——”

“Help!”

“You offer all, all that such a girl wants. VoilÀ!”

“There is something in what you say, Mary. Yes, you are right. I’ll take the road to-morrow. I may not succeed in getting Cicely alone.”

“Then you are not the man I take you to be.”

Mrs. Roden left the dining-room. Wilverley finished a good cigar, quite unconscious of having been “pushed.”