Waiting alone in the full knowledge that her fate was now sealed, with the intensely chelonian, uncivilized far-off clamour of the playing fields wafting in from outside, Gwynne — she who had always seemed so cold! — thought once more of Mark Niven, the brilliant scholar who had wanted to make her his life’s work. He was now, according to the best salon gossip, a prisoner in the very castle he had once owned.
   At that moment came a sudden clatter of hooves, and she leapt to her feet with hope — and alarm — in her eyes. He was here! “Without you I am nothing, my perfect little carrot!” he mumbled.
   Suddenly, he slid the little ring onto her finger, and as he once again began to woo her with the sensual voice of his Stradivarius, she started to think about what they would call their children.