“Dicky?” he repeated. “Dicky! Lavinia, do not tell me there is another claimant to your heart?”

“Wicked, indelicate creature! ’Tis my husband!”

“Your husband ! Enfin⁠—”

She cast him a sidelong glance of mingled coquetry and reproof.

“Your mind is at rest again, I trust?”

“Of course! A husband? Pooh, a bagatelle, no more!”

“My husband is not a bagatelle!” she laughed. “I am very fond of him.”

“This grows serious,” he frowned. “ ’Tis very unfashionable, surely?”

She met his teasing eyes and cast down her lashes.