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Her hand stole to rest on his forearm, but he evaded it. “Mary, we will be seen! Would you repeat the performance we have just given?”

Instead of being abashed, she hugged herself. “Hurrah! You called me Mary again! Come now. Say you have forgiven me, Horace. For the jilting, at least, if not for running you into a little predicament here.”

“Let us continue walking.”

Obligingly she fell into step beside him again, but he knew from the glances she gave him that she would not let him go without an answer. He forgave her for the past, of course—

“Of course”?

There had been nothing “of course” about it until the day he woke to find his bitterness gone and Mrs. Sebastian Barstow occupying Mary Pence’s place in his affections. But he knew instinctively no young lady would appreciate forgiveness being granted at such a price.

The streets of Oxford were never empty, especially on a Saturday evening during Hilary Term, and for the first time Langworthy was glad of Mary’s disguise.

A young man in livery attracted no interest at all, whereas sprightly, red-headed, pretty Mary Pence would have drawn admiring looks and possibly even remarks before they reached the Angel Inn.

As it was, they found a table in the coffee room, and after ordering her some refreshment, Langworthy could leave her there while he secured places for her and Blodgett on the evening flyer.

Then it could be postponed no longer, the necessary, plain-spoken truth.

He returned to find her drinking her chocolate, one shapely little leg swinging carelessly as she studied the other patrons.

“It’s too bad I was so unpromising a footboy,” she said when he sat down across from her, “because I rather like the freedom of being a young man. No wonder you will not say when you will return to Portsmouth. It is one thing to bind oneself to a girl when one is mostly at sea and need only see her from time to time, and quite another to be trapped at home with her day after day.”

“That is not the reason I did not answer you earlier…Wrigley,” he said quietly, shooting an uncordial look at the waiter clearing the next table who peeped over.

“It was because we were standing in the street where we could be seen and overheard, as indeed we were by the Perryfield coachman. But believe me now when I tell you, it is not for love of my liberty that I do not wish to restore our engagement.”

Color washed over her elfin features and her chin lifted. “Then it’s because you’re still angry with me.”

“I was indeed angry,” he confessed. “And hurt. I do not deny it, nor think I was unjustified in feeling so. But neither is that the reason.”

“Then what?” She picked up her cup of chocolate, swirling the beverage about. “Do look at this. I will share it with you, if you like. I was quite envious of you all at the children’s ball, with your delicious drinks and sweets.”

Her ability to make such a remark at such a time reassured him that there would be no repeat of her outburst, if he could only keep her calm. She had always loved dramatic moments, and he supposed she had not been able to resist the emotion which moved her earlier.

“Listen to me—Wrigley,” he urged, ignoring her giggle at the name.

“We were good friends for years and were once very fond of each other. Fond enough to decide to marry. But when Captain Colley came along, you preferred him to me, for whatever reasons. No—wait—let me finish.” When she shut her lips again, pouting a little, he went on.

“And had the captain not asked to be released, I do not doubt you would prefer him still.”

To this she shrugged, but the gesture further encouraged him. It was not a denial.

“Mar—Wrigley, rather, let us be sensible. Marriage is too important an enterprise to be undertaken with one’s second choice because the first is no longer available.”

“You’re not my second choice,” insisted Mary. “I know your pride is hurt, but you were my first choice from childhood, Horace. Captain Colley did draw my attention away for a time—I do not deny it—but now that he has disappointed me, I see your true worth.”

Was it true? Once he would have been tortured by the question, wanting desperately to believe her, yet fearing she only kept him in reserve for such an eventuality. Now…well, he was curious, but no more than that.

Clasping her hands together, she leaned forward earnestly. “Forgive me, Horace. Do!”

“Sit up,” he hissed. “What footboy ever behaved thus?”

“I’ll sit up if you say you’ve forgiven me.”

“I have. Truly. I do and I have.”

She straightened then and grinned at him. “Does this mean we are engaged again?”

“What? No! Look here, Mar—Wrigley, I mean. It is time to leave our former relationship behind us.”

Her nostrils flared indignantly, and Langworthy braced himself for another explosion. “Remember yourself!” he mouthed.

It was touch and go at that point, he would think later, for her bosom began to heave in an even more un-footboy-like manner, half in anger and half in humiliation, but it was the hovering waiter’s reappearance which forestalled an encore to the earlier scene.

“Is everything all right here?” the waiter asked, lifting the lid of her chocolate pot and peering in.

“Perfectly,” said Langworthy shortly.

“Perfectly,” echoed Mary.

The waiter moved on again, but he might not have been out of earshot before she clutched the sides of the deal table and whispered, “Is it because of that cunning Mrs. Sebastian that you no longer want me? Tell me! You owe me that much.”

“Do—not—mention—her—here,” he bit out ominously.

But seeing her brows draw together, he relented, adding in complete honesty, “I do not want to renew our engagement because we have outgrown each other. You said it yourself—I have changed, and you have as well. You would not have loved Colley if you hadn’t. ”

“But we could change back, I know we could, if we wanted to,” she persisted.

“You’re probably right—you have grown serious, and I grew…

tired of waiting at home for you to return, but now you have returned, and if we are together again, I can make you forget about the two wasted years and your lost friend and how I hurt you! I could, I know I could.”

“Wrigley—” He felt doubly a fool for having to address her thus and for holding this conversation while she was in that preposterous disguise, but there was no alternative. “What’s done is done. Besides, I will be going away to sea again, as soon as I can find an officer’s berth.”

“Yes—to sea!” she nodded, her eyes brightening as a new idea struck her. “If only—say! Suppose we didn’t start with being engaged again. Suppose I were to go to sea with you as—as your cabin boy? You see what a good boy I make. What larks! What adventures!”

He stared at her in thorough amazement. “Have you—lost your mind? You cannot be serious.”

“Why can’t I? Why must men have all the fun?”

“ Fun? Mar—Wrigley, this is war —not a—not an excursion to Ramsgate! It’s certainly no place for a la—for one like you.

All dangers aside, if you knew the conditions—the close quarters, the hard work, the rough company, the language, the food, the smells!

For—one like you—there is scant privacy aboard ship—”

“Wouldn’t the cabin boy share your cabin?”

This drew a raised brow. “I’m a lieutenant, Wrigley, and heaven only knows how senior I will be.

Whatever ‘cabin’ I am assigned might more accurately be called a closet.

And even if it were larger, the cabin boy is generally stuffed into the smallest compartment which will fit him, nearest the mess, so he can rise early to serve meals and be at everyone’s beck and call. ”

“Oh.” She drooped with disappointment. “That doesn’t sound very delightful.”

While naval life was not devoid of delightful things, Langworthy forbore to mention them here. “Wrigley, for your own safety and for your friends’ and family’s peace of mind, promise me you will return to Portsmouth and to your…station in life.”

“You have no right to exact promises from me.”

“I ask as your friend.”

“Will you come and see me in Portsmouth as soon as you return?”

The hesitation gave her her answer, but instead of bristling, she sighed this time. “I will go home. I don’t see as I have any choice, though it would serve you and everyone right if I took Blodgett and disappeared to London.”

“Ah, but then you would miss all the navy men, young and old, rich and poor, handsome and plain, pouring as we speak into Portsmouth, and they would miss you.”

It was true, as far as those things went, but he knew there was one who would not miss her. Who would never miss her again.

And when Mary Pence and her ancient companion Miss Blodgett were seen safely off on the evening coach, Langworthy made his thoughtful way back to Iffley.