Soon afterward, Rufus Smythe decided that it was time to see "poor" Hanley home to his bed. A hackney was summoned and the inert form of the unhappily betrothed man was carried out to it. His departure was a signal for the breakup of the whole party, it being little short of three o'clock in the morning.

Sir Rowland Horton walked home with the Duke of

Eversleigh, his own home being close to the duke's residence on Curzon Street.

"You're going to regret this wager in the cold light of day, dear boy," he said, shrugging deeper inside his greatcoat as the chill of the April night penetrated his consciousness.

"I think not, Rowland," the duke replied coolly. "A wife I must have. I cannot imagine ever finding a woman whose companionship I would enjoy for the rest of my life. Taking time to make a choice would be a pointless exercise. Anyone will do."

Horton laughed uneasily. "Why not Suzanne, Marius? She is beautiful, witty, experienced, and I am sure she would have you at the drop of a hat."

Eversleigh cocked one eyebrow and glanced sidelong at his friend. "Are you quite mad, Rowland?" he asked. "Marry my mistress? The situation would be quite intolerable."

"Why so?" Horton persisted. "It would not be like marrying a light-skirt. Suzanne is accepted by all the highest sticklers; she is independently wealthy."

"She also knows our world too well from the inside," Eversleigh reminded him cynically. "One would not be able to live one's own life and forget her existence during the day. She would demand too much. And frankly, Rowland, I would not bet on her fidelity. As things are now, it matters not to me if someone else occasionally occupies my place in her bed. But to be a cuckolded husband, 'Rowland? It is out of the question."