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“I don’t think you ought to go down to Riverton without someone responsible to look after you,” objected Mrs. St. Orme dubiously.

“My dear little mother, what a notion!” cried her step-daughter with a merry laugh. “Who ever dreamt of the proprieties on the river? Why, I spent a whole fortnight on the house-boat with only Bertie and the Badger that time the poor old pater and I fell out over–what was it? Well, it doesn’t matter. Anyhow, I did. And no one a bit the worse. Bertie is equal to a dozen duennas, as everyone knows.”

“Don’t you really care, I wonder?” said Mrs. St. Orme, with wondering eyes on the animated face.

“Why should I, dear?” laughed the girl, dropping upon a hassock at her side. “I am my own mistress. I have a little money, and–considering I am only twenty-four–quite a lot of wisdom. As to being Viscountess Merrivale, I will say it fascinated me a little–just at first, you know. And the poor old pater was so respectful I couldn’t help enjoying myself. But the gilt soon wore off the gingerbread, and I really couldn’t enjoy what was left. I said to myself, ‘My dear, that man has the makings of a hectoring bully. You must cut yourself loose at once if you don’t want to develop into that most miserable of all creatures, a down-trodden wife.’ So after our little tiff of the day before yesterday I sent the notice off forthwith. And–you observe–it has taken effect. The tyrant hasn’t been near.”

“You really mean to say the engagement wasn’t actually broken off before you sent it?” said Mrs. St. Orme, looking shocked.

“It didn’t occur to either of us,” said Hilary, looking down with a smile at the corners of her mouth. “He chose to take exception to my being seen riding in the park with Mr. Fletcher. And I took exception to his interference. Not that I like Mr. Fletcher, for I don’t. But I had to assert my right to choose my own friends. He disputed it. And then we parted. No one is going to interfere with my freedom.”

“You were never truly in love with him, then?” said Mrs. St. Orme, regret and relief struggling in her voice.

Hilary looked up with clear eyes.

“Oh, never, darling!” she said tranquilly. “Nor he with me. I don’t know what it means; do you? You can’t–surely–be in love with the poor old pater?”

She laughed at the idea and idly took up a paper lying at hand. Half a minute later she uttered a sharp cry and looked up with flaming cheeks.

“How–how–dare he?” she cried, almost incoherent with angry astonishment. “Sybil! For Heaven’s sake! See!”

She thrust the paper upon her step-mother’s knee and pointed with a finger that shook uncontrollably at a brief announcement in the society column.

“We are requested to state that the announcement in yesterday’s issue that the marriage arranged between Viscount Merrivale and Miss Hilary St. Orme would not take place was erroneous. The marriage will take place, as previously announced, towards the end of the season.”

* * * * *

“What sublime assurance!” exclaimed Bertie St. Orme, lying on his back in the luxurious punt which his sister was leisurely impelling up stream, and laughing up at her flushed face. “This viscount of yours seems to have plenty of decision of character, whatever else he may be lacking in.”

Bertie St. Orme was a cripple, and spent every summer regularly upon the river with his old manservant, nicknamed “the Badger.”

“Oh, he is quite impossible!” Hilary declared. “Let’s talk of something else!”

“But he means to keep you to your word, eh?” her brother persisted. “How will you get out of it?”

Hilary’s face flushed more deeply, and she bit her lip.

“There won’t be any getting out of it. Don’t be silly! I am free.”