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And so, when she saw him that evening, when his momentous interview with her father was over, she was moved to graciousness for the first time. A passing glimpse of her father’s face assured her that all had gone well, aye, more than well.

As for Wingarde, he waived the money question altogether when he found himself alone with his fiancee.

“Your father will tell you what provision I am prepared to make for you,” he coldly said. “He is fully satisfied–on your behalf.”

She felt the sting of the last words, and flushed furiously. But she found no word of indignation to utter, though in a moment her graciousness was a thing of the past.

“I have not deceived you,” she said, speaking with an effort.

He gave her a keen look.

“I don’t think you could,” he rejoined quietly. “And I certainly shouldn’t advise you to try.”

And then to her utter surprise and consternation he took her shoulders between his hands.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

There was not a shade of emotion to be detected in either face or voice as he made the request. Yet Nina drew back from him with a shudder that she scarcely attempted to disguise.

“No!” she said vehemently.

He set her free instantly, and she thought he smiled. But the look in his eyes frightened her. She felt the mastery that would not compel.

“One more thing,” he said, calmly passing on. “It is usual for a girl in your position to wear an engagement ring. I should like you to wear this in my honour.”

He held out to her on the palm of his hand a little, old-fashioned ring set with rubies and pearls. Nina glanced at him in momentary surprise. It was not in the least what she would have expected as the rich man’s first gift. Involuntarily she hesitated. She felt that he had offered her something more than mere precious stones set in gold.

He waited for her to take the ring in absolute silence.

“Mr. Wingarde,” she said nervously, “I–I am afraid it is something you value.”

“It is,” he said. “It belonged to my mother. In fact, it was her engagement ring. But why should you be afraid?”

For the first time there was a note of softness in his voice.

Nina’s face was burning.

“I would rather have something you do not care about,” she said in a low tone.

Instantly his face grew hard.

“Give me your hand!” he said shortly. “The left, please!”

She gave it, the flush dying swiftly from her cheeks. She could not control its trembling as he deliberately fitted the ring on to the third finger.

“Understand,” he said, “that I wish this ring and no other to be the token of your engagement to me. If you object to it, I am sorry. But, after all, it will only be in keeping with the rest. I must go now as I have an appointment to keep. Your father has asked me to lunch on Sunday and I have accepted. I hope you will pay me the compliment of being at home.”

III

THE HONEYMOON

The first of June fell on a Saturday that year, and a good many people remained in town for it in order to be present at the wedding of Lord Marchmont’s only daughter to Hereford Wingarde, the millionaire.

Comments upon Nina’s choice had even yet scarcely died out, and Archie Neville, her faithful friend and admirer, was still wondering why he and his very comfortable income had been passed over for this infernal bounder whom no one knew. He had proposed to Nina twice, and on each occasion her refusal had seemed to him to be tinged with regret. To use his own expression, he was “awfully cut up” by the direction affairs had taken. But, philosophically determined to make the best of it, he attended the wedding with a smiling face, and even had the audacity to kiss the bride–a privilege that had not been his since childhood.