"Haven't you guessed? I'm sure you have!"

St. John's lips twisted in a whimsical smile.

"I suppose you mean that six-foot-odd of bone and muscle from Trenby
Hall?"

"Of course I mean him! Just because she's miserable over that Rooke
business and because Roger is as insistent as a man with that kind of
chin always is, she'll be Mrs. Roger before we can stop her--and
miserable ever after!"

"Isn't the picture a trifle overdrawn?" St. John pulled forward one of
the garden chairs and sat down. "Trenby's a very decent fellow, I
should imagine, and comes of good old stock."

"Oh, yes, he's all that." Kitty metaphorically tossed the whole pack
of qualifications into the dustbin. "But he's got the devil's own
temper when he's roused and he's filled to the brim with good
old-fashioned notions about a man being master in his own house, et
cetera. And no man will ever be master in his own house while Nan's in
it--unless he breaks her."

St. John stirred restlessly.

"Things are a bit complicated sometimes, aren't they?" he said in a
rather tired voice. "Still"--with an effort--"we must hope for the
best. You've jumped far ahead of the actual state of affairs at
present."