"My wedding-dress isn't ready," she sobbed at last futilely, and the old man leant back in his chair and roared with laughter.
"By Gad, Fan," he bawled, "you're a woman, and no mistake; so don't make those eyes of yours too red with crying. Remember, you're not so young as you were. And as for this little penchant of yours for Marmaduke, why, God bless my soul, my dear, you've had dozens such episodes, and so have I, by Gad, so we'll suit each other down to the ground. Now, if you will please ring the bell for Dewar, I'll leave you to prepare--six o'clock sharp. I've told the gardeners to send you some orange blossoms from the houses and to decorate the hall. My daughters will be your bridesmaids."
When his wheeled-chair had gone the effect of his brutal determination, his colossal masterfulness, did not pass with it. That remained, and Fantine Le Grand gave in to it helplessly. The old man had said very little; on the whole he had been wonderfully polite, but she knew she was trapped, and that she might as well try to fly as to escape from his watchful eye, his unscrupulous power.
And, after all, it was but a return to the old plans; so after a while she followed Lord Drummuir's advice and dried her eyes.
"You ought to think yourself deuced lucky," growled Colonel Compton, when he came in, after a time full of alarm and recriminations. "If anyone had told me the old man would take it so quietly I wouldn't have believed it. I expected he would have kicked us both out into the gutter, and then where should we be? And such a mad idea, too! The Honourable Marmaduke Muir as a public dancer--preposterous!"
"It would only have been for six months and under an assumed name," interrupted Fantine defiantly; but all initiative was passing from her. She felt like clay in the hands of the potter.
"Twaddle!" insisted Colonel Compton. "I can only think you were insane. The fact is, my dear Fanny, you're getting old and your ankles wouldn't stand the hacking about of a dancer's life. That is why we agreed on your becoming Lady Drummuir, and you ought to be very much obliged to the old man for letting you off so easily."
This, combined with the reiterated allusions to her age, was too much for patience. Fantine jumped up and stamped her foot in impotent anger.
"Easily?" she echoed. "Can't you see the malice of the man? He is making us all feel fools. He is doing all the harm he can. I tell you he is enjoying himself thoroughly."
She was perfectly right. Lord Drummuir had not felt so young for years. At that moment, after disposing of Penelope in a way that reached the very marrow of the unseen bones hidden under that extinguisher of fat, he was facing, with a special licence in his hand, the dapper little figure of the Reverend Patrick Bryce, who, called on some pretext of illness, found himself confronted with an order to solemnise a marriage that same evening.