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“But my father is not dead a fortnight,” she said; “I ought to be in mourning for him.”

“Tut! not a bit of it; no mourning during our wedding tour. Afterwards you shall be up to your throat in crêpe if you like.”

“It is strange of you, Adrian, to say so very much about afterwards; when you say ‘afterwards,’ a cold shiver seems to go through me.”

“Faith, child,” he replied, pulling himself together with an effort, “I don’t mean anything. You shall, if I can manage it, walk on roses as long as you live; and now, now, Nance—during our glorious honeymoon, we will not think for one moment of the possibility of a shadow. Come, darling, the carriage must be waiting for us in the courtyard.”

They went downstairs in the lift.

Rowton’s prophecy was abundantly fulfilled: there was not a man in the place who did not look with more than admiration at the lovely girl who walked by his side. They went to the opera and Rowton watched the faces of his fellow-men and women. Some acquaintance in a distant box recognised him and bowed. Rowton returned their salutations icily; he did not want old friends to crop up here; he was determined to share Nance with no one during the golden four weeks which he had allowed himself. But when a Frenchman of the name of D’Escourt knocked at the door of the Rowtons’ box, Rowton felt forced to admit him and to introduce him to Nance. The two men talked for a little time in French, and D’Escourt promised himself the pleasure of calling on Mrs. Rowton early the following day. He sat down presently by her side, and began to talk. He was a man of the world, extremely polished, and with a perfect knowledge of English as well as French. Nancy’s French was not her strong point, and she was glad to talk to the stranger in English.