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“Grenadine,” said Sarah relentlessly. “All nice and red and sweet. I love it.”

Physically and mentally, the epicure writhed.... Then he gave the order.

Sarah smiled maddeningly.

“That was very sweet of you, Virgil—darling.”

“Not at all, my love”—shakily. “When we’re—er married—blast this peach!” he added savagely, plunging his hands in water. “I suppose you couldn’t do with a walnut?”

“Get down to it,” said Sarah shortly. “ ‘When we’re married,’ you were saying.”

“Was I? Oh, yes. Well, when——By the way, I’d better announce it, hadn’t I?”

“I suppose so,” said Sarah.

“Right,” said Virgil. “The usual thing, I take it. ‘A marriage has been arranged, and——’ ”

He stopped short and looked at her.

Sarah smiled back.

“It has, with a vengeance,” she flashed. “Hasn’t it?”

Virgil wiped his hands and lifted his glass.

“Your very good health, Sarah. I’m sorry you can’t marry George. But I’ll do my best.”

He drank luxuriously.

Sarah lifted her grenadine.

“And yours, Virgil. I know your feelings exactly. As for poor June, words fail me. But, since it can’t be helped, I’ll do what I can.”