I am sorry if I have been overhasty in my judgment. It is just that I worry about Stephen. He has always been restless and has wanted something more adventurous of life than he could possibly hope for. Now suddenly he has infinitely more than he ever thought to wish for. But he does not know who he is any longer or what his life is to be or his exact position in his new world. And so he will turn to you as a mentor and model, especially as he already admires you. I fear for him if you insist that he must become more - " One hand came free of her muff and she made circling motions with it. "Arrogant? Obnoxious?" he suggested.

She laughed suddenly and unexpectedly, a light, merry sound. "Is that what I called you?" she said. "I daresay you are accustomed to being treated with obsequious deference by your inferiors. I was determined from the start not to stand in awe of you. It seemed so silly to do so." "It must be gratifying for you," he said curtly, "to know that you have succeeded so well." Good lord! That had been pure spite, something he never indulged in. And he still had the irritation of an evening spent as a guest of Sir Humphrey Dew to look forward to. "Being an earl - or a viscount - is serious business, Mrs. Dew," he continued. "It is not all basking in one's consequence and spending one's pots of money and beaming geniality on one's minions and dependents. Or even striking awe into them. One is /responsible /for them." As he had found to his cost during the past year. The very idea that he was settling down and would complete the process this year when he selected a bride and married her could plunge him into the deepest gloom. He /certainly /had not needed the added aggravation of finding himself guardian to a seventeen-year-old - especially when the boy happened to come encumbered with three sisters, none of whom had been farther than ten miles from Throckbridge, Shropshire, their entire lives if his guess was correct. Certainly the boy had not. "And one of those people for whom /you /are responsible is Stephen?" she asked softly. "Precisely," he said. "How did that come about?" she asked him. "The old earl was my uncle," he explained. "My father agreed to be appointed guardian to his nephew, my cousin and your brother's predecessor. But my father died last year, only two years after my uncle." "Ah," she said. "And so you inherited the guardianship as well as everything else?" "Yes," he said. "And then a few months ago my young cousin died and the hunt for your brother began. And /then /it was discovered that he too was a minor. May he live long. There has been enough death in my family to suffice for a long, long time." "If you were a cousin," she began, "why - " "A /maternal /cousin," he explained without waiting for her to finish her question. "My mother and Jonathan's mother were sisters." "/Jonathan. /Poor boy." She sighed. "But now I can see that I have done you something of an injustice, resenting you when all you have been doing is a duty you inherited from your father. How disappointed you must have been to learn that Stephen is so young." It was perhaps an apology of sorts. But he was not appeased. The woman was sharp-tongued and of fensive.

However had he put himself into this position anyway? He might simply have touched the brim of his hat as he passed her on his horse, inquired civilly into her health, and ridden onward with George.

He turned his head to look at her and found that she was turning hers at the same moment to look at /him/. She bit her lip as their eyes met, and hers filled with merriment. "I have dared to quarrel with a /viscount,/" she said. "Will it be written on my epitaph, do you suppose?" "Only," he said, "if you boast of it to your family and never let them forget until your dying day." She laughed and turned her head to the front again. "You see?" she said. "We are almost at the house. I am sure we are both thankful for that." "Amen," he said, and she laughed again.

Perhaps, he thought as they completed the walk without talking, she would think twice about her decision to move to Warren Hall with her family in light of this conversation and her opinion of him. Perhaps she would decide to stay here at Rundle Park, where she would not have to suffer his arrogance and contempt and bad temper. Sir Humphrey Dew was not a marvelously sensible man, but he was undeniably genial and he was obviously as fond of his daughter-in-law as he was of his own daughters.

She must be comfortable here.

He hoped fervently she would think twice.

But of course she did not.

The long wait was finally over. Young Merton called at the inn on the fifth evening to announce that he and his sisters - all three of them, alas - would be ready to leave on the morrow, and the following morning they showed themselves to be as good as their word. Or almost. When Elliott and George rode their hired horses along the village street to the Huxtable cottage, having settled their account at the inn, all four travelers were out of doors, dressed for the journey. The baggage coach George had hired was loaded with all their baggage. Elliott's traveling coach was drawn up before the cottage gate, its door wide open, its steps down ready to receive the ladies.

But there was a delay. Not only were the three Huxtables and Mrs. Dew out of doors and gathered before the cottage. So also were surely all the rest of the inhabitants of the village of Throckbridge - /and /their dogs.

Miss Huxtable was on the garden path, hugging the housekeeper, who was to remain behind in the cottage. Miss Katherine Huxtable was outside the gate, hugging an unknown villager. Merton was shaking hands with the vicar while his left arm was draped about the shoulders of a sobbing young girl - the very one who had giggled her way through the Valentine's assembly just a week ago. And Mrs. Dew was in the arms of Sir Humphrey, while the rest of his family clustered about them, handkerchiefs in hand, all looking tragic. Tears trickled unabashedly down the baronet's cheeks.

Other persons appeared to be awaiting their turn with all four.

A terrier, a collie, and a canine of indeterminate breed were rushing hither and yon, barking and yipping with excitement and occasionally meeting and stopping to sniff noses. "One wonders," Elliott said dryly as he drew his horse to a halt well short of the main action, "if there is a single villager who has remained at home this morning." "It is an affecting sight," George agreed, "and a testament to the closeness of neighbors in a small village." A village lad was holding the head of the horse Merton had purchased from the stables at Rundle, Elliott could see, and was fairly bursting with pride as two of his less fortunate peers gazed enviously on.

Foolishly, Elliott had expected to ride up to the cottage, assist the ladies into his carriage, and depart along a deserted street without further ado. Six days in Throckbridge should have forewarned him that the departure would not be that simple. The fact that young Stephen Huxtable was now the Earl of Merton was spectacular news enough, but the added fact that he and his sisters were to leave Throckbridge, perhaps forever, was of far more moment.

Lady Dew had stepped through the garden gate to exchange a few words with Miss Huxtable, and then the two of them were hugging each other.

One of the Dew sisters was weeping rather noisily on Mrs. Dew's shoulder.

It was a scene to outdo even the most sentimental of melodramas on any London stage. "We have changed all their lives forever," George observed. "One can only hope it is for the better." "/We /have changed their lives? I had nothing whatsoever to do with Jonathan Huxtable's demise, George. Neither did you, it is to be hoped.

And it was not I who agreed to be guardian to a boy who would never be a mature adult - and then to /another /boy, who will not achieve his majority for four more years. It was my father." Elliott felt for the handle of the quizzing glass beneath his greatcoat and raised it to his eye. No, Mrs. Dew was not in tears, but there was a look of deep grief and affection on her face. Obviously it was not easy for her to say good-bye to her in-laws. Then why the devil was she doing it? She wore a gray cloak and bonnet. There were glimpses of a lavender dress beneath the cloak. She was still in partial mourning after more than a year. Perhaps she had been fond of the consumptive Dew whom she had married. Perhaps she had not married him just out of pity or from a desire to attach her-self to the family of a baronet.