And Edith had looked very well. Not happy, no one could be happy with an army at the door and a quarrel in the entrance hall; but that she was contented with the lot she had chosen was plain. She did not regret.

Laurence wholeheartedly wished her happy, and his feeling held no envious quality. But it was uncomfortable to think Woolvey had brought it about, when, Laurence was painfully aware, he had not. He had kept Edith on the shelf with expectation when she might have had more advantageous offers. He did not care to remember their last interview: all selfish petulance on his side, even the gall even to make her an offer, which could only be unwelcome after he had pledged himself to the Corps. He looked at Woolvey, who was staring out of the carriage window. What had Edith to regret? Nothing: she had better congratulate herself on a lucky escape.

The coach drew to a halt. Holland House was dark. The horses stamped uneasily, their warm breath steaming in the air while a footman came rubbing sleep from his eyes to hold their heads. ‘Yes, I know the family are away,’ Woolvey was saying, already climbing out as another man opened the door for him. ‘Be so good as to stable my horses and bring Gavins out, I want a word with him.’

He gave only airy excuses for his presence in the city, and for his late visit: the baby ill and squalling, the wife impatient, ‘—and I thought to myself, what I need is a walk in the fresh air, and a look at the stars—Too many lights in Mayfair—I am sure Lord Holland would not mind—’

It was a bizarre proposal, at midnight, with an army in the streets and two men in rough clothing behind him, but Gavins only bowed: familiar with the odd starts of gentlemen in their cups, and too well-trained to show it, if he were puzzled. ‘I must advise you, sir, not to go too close to the east end of the park, if you should walk beyond the gardens,’ he said. ‘I am afraid we have several dragons sleeping there.’

‘Oh,’ Woolvey said, and when they had been let into the park, whispered, ‘What are we to do about the beasts?’

‘Walk by them,’ Tharkay said, blowing out the lantern they had been given.

‘There is no need for you to come any further,’ Laurence said. ‘You have done us a great service already, Woolvey—’

‘I am not afraid,’ Woolvey returned, angrily, and strode on ahead.

Tharkay shook his head, and when Laurence looked at him said quietly, ‘It must be difficult to follow an officer of public repute, in the affections of a woman who loves courage.’

It had not occurred to Laurence, that Woolvey meant this display for Edith's benefit, or that he felt any sense of competition with him. ‘My reputation is hardly one any sensible man would covet.’