“They call him the Nonesuch!” said Courtenay reverently.

“Do they, love? That would be a nickname, I daresay. Depend upon it, it was given him for some silly reason, like the way your grandfather was used to call your poor Aunt Jane Muffin, all because—”

“Oh!” cried her niece, impatiently interrupting these amiable meanderings, “as though anyone was ever called that for a stupid joke! It means—it means perfection! Doesn’t it, Ancilla?”

Miss Trent, selecting a length of silk from her skein, replied, in her cool, well-bred voice: “A paragon, certainly.”

“Fudge! It means being the greatest Go among all the Goers!” stated Courtenay. “Particularly on the roads—though they say the Nonesuch is a clipping rider to hounds too. Gregory Ash—and he knows all the Melton men!—told me that in harness and out no man can do more with a horse than the Nonesuch. Well, if he is coming here, I won’t be seen driving that chestnut I had from old Skeeby, that’s certain! Mama, Mr Badgworth has a neatish bay he’d be willing to sell: beautiful stepper—carries a good head—just the right stamp!”

“Oh, pooh! As though anyone cares a rush for such stuff!” broke in Miss Wield scornfully. “Sir Waldo is first in consequence with the ton, and of the first style of elegance, besides being very handsome, and hugely wealthy!”

“Elegant! Handsome!” jeered Courtenay, mimicking her. “Much you know about it!”

“I do know!” she flashed. “When I was at my uncle’s house in Portland Place—”

“Yes, you were as thick as inkle-weavers with him, of course! What miff-maff you do talk! I don’t suppose you’ve ever so much as clapped eyes on him!”

“I have, I have! Frequently! Well, several times! And he is handsome and elegant! Ancilla, he is, isn’t he?”