Laura Highford, his last episode, was fortunately over and had always
been rather tiresome. In any case none of those ladies of the world--or
other world--had any reasons to reproach him, and he was free and
happy. And if he wished to put down a large stake on the card of
marriage he was answerable to no one.

During the last eight hundred years, ever since Amaury Guiscard of that
house of Hauteville whose daring deeds gave sovereigns to half Europe,
had come over with his Duke William, and had been rewarded by the gift
of the Wrayth lands--seized from the Saxons--his descendants had
periodically done madly adventurous things. Perhaps the quality was
coming out in him!

Then he thought of his lady, personally, and not of the
extraordinariness of his action. She was exasperatingly attractive. How
delicious it would be when he had persuaded her to talk to him, taught
her to love him, because she certainly must love him--some day! It was
rather cold-blooded of her to be willing to marry him, a stranger; but
he was not going to permit himself to dwell upon that. She could not be
really cold-blooded with that face: its every line bespoke capability of
exquisite passion. It was not the least cunning, or calculating, either.
It was simply adorable. And to kiss! But here he pulled himself together
and wrote to his mother a note, short and to the point, which she
received by the first post next morning at her small, house in Queen
Street, Mayfair; and then he went to bed. The note ran:

"My Dear Mother:

"I am going to be married at last. The lady is a daughter of Maurice
Grey (a brother of old Colonel Grey of Hentingdon who died last year),