“I make you my apologies,” replied Avon, slightly inclining his head. “You must forgive my declining years, which make it difficult for me to appreciate the manners of your generation. In my day we did not fight in gaming-hells, or when we were in our cups.”

“A mistake, sir, I admit. I am sorry for it.”

The Duke looked at him sardonically. “I am not in the least interested in your emotions, Vidal. What I object to is that you have had the impertinence to disturb your mother. That I do not permit. You will leave England at once.”

Vidal was very pale, and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. “Ill stand my trial, I believe.”

The Duke put up his glass and surveyed Vidal through it “You do not appear to have much understanding of the situation,” he remarked. “You will leave England, not to save your neck, nor because it is my will, but to spare your mother any further anxiety concerning your safety. I trust I make myself plain?”

Vidal looked at him with hard defiant eyes. Then he strode restlessly to the window and back again. “Quite plain. Yet if I say I’ll not go, what then?”

“I should regret the necessity of course, but I should—er—contrive your departure willy-nilly.”

The Marquis gave a short laugh. “Egad, I believe you would! I’ll go.”

“You had better bid your mother good-bye,” recommended his grace. “You will reach the coast quite easily by to-night.”

“Just as you please, sir,” Vidal said indifferently. He picked up his hat and gloves from the table. “Is there anything more you desire to say to me?”

“Very little,” Avon answered. “Your restraint is quite admirable. I applaud it.”

“I thought it was my lack of it that had offended your sensibilities, sir,” said Vidal grimly. “You go too fast for me.”

Avon smiled. “You must not think me witless, my dear boy. I am perfectly aware that you would like to throw my extremely reprehensible past in my teeth.”

“I confess, sir, I find your homily a little ironic.”

“Quite amusing, is it not?” agreed his grace. “I am perfectly sensible of it. But the road I travelled is not the road I should desire my son to take. And you will no doubt agree that a liberal experience of vice gives me some right to judge.” He rose and came to the fire. “Concerning more immediate matters, you may draw upon Foley’s in Paris, of course.”

“Thank you, sir, I have enough for my needs,” the Marquis said stiffly.

“I compliment you. You are certainly the first Alastair ever to say so. You will find your mother upstairs.”

“Then I’ll take my leave of you, sir,” Vidal said. “Accept my apologies for the inconvenience I may have caused you.” He bowed, unsmiling, and turned sharp on his heel. As he jerked open the door, Avon spoke again. “By the way, Vidal, does my record still stand?”

The Marquis looked back over his shoulder, frowning. “Your record, sir?”

“Three hours and forty-seven minutes was my time,” said his grace pensively.

An unwilling laugh broke from Vidal. “No, sir, your record does not stand.”

“I thought not,” said Avon. “May I be permitted to know the new record?”

“Three hours and forty-four minutes. But the curricle was specially designed.”

“So was mine,” said Avon. “I am glad you bettered my time. If I were twenty years younger—”

“I beg you will not attempt it, ski” said the Marquis quickly. He hesitated; the stormy look was still in his face, but his eyes had softened.

“Pray do not do violence to your feelings,” Avon said. “You will find me remarkably hard to wound.”

The Marquis let go the door handle, and came back to his father’s side. “I beg your pardon, sir.” He took Avon’s thin hand in his, and bent to touch it with his lips. “Adieu, mon père.”

“Let us say, rather, au revoir,” Avon answered. “I will spare you my blessing which I cannot conceive would benefit you in the least.”

Upon which they parted, each one understanding the other tolerably well. Vidal’s interview with his mother lasted much longer, and was to him even more unpleasant. Léonie had no reproaches for him, but she was plainly unhappy, and the Marquis hated to see his mother unhappy.

“It’s my damnable temper, maman,” he said ruefully.

She nodded. “I know. That is why I am feeling very miserable. It is no good people saying you are a devil like all the Alastairs, because me, I know that it is my temper that you have, mon pauvre. You see, there is very black blood in my family.” She shook her head sadly. “M. de Saint-Vire—my father, you understand—was of a character the most abominable. And hot-headed! He shot himself in the end, which was a very good thing. He had red hair like mine.”

“I haven’t that excuse,” said her son, grinning.

“No, but you behave just as I should like to when I am enraged,” Léonie said candidly. “When I_was young I was very fond of shooting people dead. Of course, I never did shoot anyone, but I wanted to—oh, often! I meant to shoot my father once—which shocked Rupert—it was when M. de Saint-Vire kidnapped me, and Rupert saved me—only Mon-seigneur arrived, and he would not at all permit it.” She paused, wrinkling her brow. “You see, Dominique, I am not a respectable person, and you are not a respectable person either. And I did want you to be.”

“I’m sorry, maman. But I don’t come of respectable stock, either side.”

“Ah, but the Alastairs are quite different,” Léonie said quickly. “No one minds if you have affaires. Of course, if you are a very great rake people say you are a devil, but it is quite in the mode and entirely respectable. Only when you do things that other people do not do, like you, and make scandals, then at once you are not respectable.”

He looked down at her half-smiling. “What am I to do, maman? If I made you a promise to become respectable I am very sure I should break it.”

She slipped her hand in his. “Well, I have been thinking, Dominique, that perhaps the best thing would be for you to be in love and marry somebody,” she said confidentially. “I do not like to say this, but it is true that before he married me, Monseigneur was a very great rake. A vrai dire, his reputation was what one does not talk about. When he made me his page, and then his ward, it was not to be kind, but because he wanted to be revenged upon M. de Saint-Vire. Only then he found that he would like to marry me, and do you know, ever since he has not been a rake at all, or done anything particularly dreadful that I can remember.”

“But I could never hope to find another woman like you, maman. If I could I promise you I’d marry her.”

“Then you would make a great mistake,” said Léonie wisely. “I am not at all the sort of wife for you.”

He did not pursue the subject. He was with her for an hour and more; it seemed as though she could not let him go. At last he wrenched himself away, knowing that for all her brave smiles she would weep her heart out once he was gone. He had given his word to her that he would leave London that night; he had much to do in the few hours left to him. His servants were sent flying on various errands, one to Newhaven to warn the captain of his yacht, the Albatross, that his lordship would sail for France next day, another to his bankers, a third to a quiet house in Blooms-bury with a billet, hastily scrawled.

This was delivered to an untidy abigail who received it in a hand hastily wiped upon her apron. She shut the door upon the messenger, and stood turning the heavily sealed letter over in her hand. Sealed with a crest it was; she wouldn’t be surprised if it came from the handsome lord that was running after Miss Sophy, only that it was directed to Miss Challoner.

Miss Challoner was coming down the stairs with her marketing-basket on her arm, and her chip hat tied over her curls. Miss Challoner, for all she was better educated than her sister, was not too grand to do the shopping. She had constituted herself housekeeper to the establishment soon after her return from the seminary, and even Mrs. Challoner admitted that she had the knack of making the money last longer than ever it had done before.

“What is it, Betty?” Mary asked, pulling on her gloves.

“It’s a letter, miss, brought by a footman. For you,” added Betty, in congratulatory tones. Betty did not think it was fair that Miss Sophy should have all the beaux, for Miss Mary was a much nicer-spoken lady, if only the gentlemen had the sense to see it.

“Oh?” said Mary, rather surprised. She took the letter. “Thank you.” Then she saw the direction, and recognized Vidal’s bold handwriting. “But this is—” She stopped. It was adressed to Miss Challoner sure enough. “Ah yes! I remember,” she said calmly, and slipped it into her reticule.

She went on out of the house, and down the street. It was Vidal’s hand; not a doubt of that. Not a doubt either that it was intended for her sister. The scrawled direction indicated that the note had been written in haste; it would be very like the Marquis to forget the existence of an elder sister, thought Mary with a wry smile.

She was a little absent-minded over the marketing, and came back with slow steps to the house. She ought to give the billet to Sophia, of course. Even as she admitted that, she realized that she would not give it to her, had never meant to from the moment it had been put into her hand. There had been an air of suppressed excitement about Sophia all the morning; she was full of mystery and importance, and had twice hinted at wonders in store for her, but when questioned she had only laughed, and said that it was a secret. Mary was anxious as she had not been before; this letter—and after all it was certainly directed to herself—might throw a little light on Sohpia’s secret.