"I've always been glad I did." She squeezed his arm fondly. "But this is different, James."
Kilmeny and Moya stopped. The young man doffed his gray felt hat and bowed.
"Mornin', Lady Farquhar—Lord Farquhar. We've come to ask your permission for our marriage."
"Mornin', rebels. Fancy I'll have to refuse it," cut back Farquhar, eyes twinkling. For this bold directness pleased and amused him.
"That would distress us extremely," answered Kilmeny with a genial smile.
"But would not affect your plans, I understand you to mean."
"You catch the idea exactly, sir."
Lady Farquhar entered the conversation. "Are you planning to go to prison with him, Moya, when he is convicted of highgrading?" she asked pleasantly.
Moya told in three sentences of what her lover had done. The Englishman wrung Kilmeny's hand cordially.
"By Jove, you reform thoroughly when you go about it. Don't think I'd have enjoyed writing that check for Miss Joyce. Leaves you strapped, does it?"