Miss Challoner regarded him in frank wonderment. “Is my grandfather in Paris then, sir?”

“Certainly,” said his grace. “I should tell you, my child, that officially you are in his company.”

“Am I, sir?” Miss Challoner blinked at him. “Then you did meet him at Newmarket?”

“Let us say, rather, that he came to find me at Newmarket,” he amended. “He is staying in an hotel which he has hired for some few weeks. You, my dear Mary, are at present keeping to your room, on account of some slight disorder of the system. The betrothal between yourself and my son is of long, though secret standing. Hitherto”—his grace touched his lips with his napkin, and laid it down. “Hitherto, both Sir Giles and myself have refused our consent to your marriage.”

“Have you?” said Mary, quite fascinated.

“Obviously. But Vidal’s banishment to France so attacked your sensibilities, my dear child, that you seemed to be in danger of going into a decline. This induced Sir Giles and myself to relent.”

“Oh, no!” begged Miss Challoner. “Not a decline, sir! I am not such a poor creature!”

“I am desolated to be obliged to contradict you, Mary, but you were certainly on the brink of a decline,” said Avon firmly.

Miss Challoner sighed. “Well, if you insist, sir ... What next?”

“Next,” said Avon, “the Duchess and myself came to Paris to grace the ceremony with our presence. We have not yet arrived, but we shall do so in a day or two. I imagine we are somewhere in the neighbourhood of Calais at the moment. When we do arrive we shall hold a rout-party in your honour. You will be formally presented to society as my son’s future wife. Which reminds me, that I cannot sufficiently praise your admirable discretion in refusing to go about when you sojourned with my cousin Elisabeth.”

Miss Challoner felt herself bound to say: “There is one person who met me at the Hôtel Charbonne, sir. The Vicomte de Valmé.”

“You can leave Bertrand to me,” interposed the Marquis. “This is all very well thought of, sir, but when does our marriage take place?”

“Your marriage, my son, takes place when Miss Challoner has had time to buy her bride-clothes. I shall leave you to decide the rest. My ingenuity falls short of planning your wedding trip.”

“You surprise me, sir. I shall take you into Italy, Mary. Will you come with me?”

“Yes, sir, with all my heart,” said Mary, smiling at him.

His hand went out to her across the table. The Duke said drily: “Delay your affecting demonstrations a moment longer, Vidal. I have to inform you that your late adversary was, when I left England, on the road to recovery.”

“My late adversary?” frowned his lordship. “Oh, Quarles! Was he, sir?”

“You do not appear to feel any undue interest in his fate,” remarked Avon.

The Marquis was looking at Mary. He said casually: “It makes no odds to me now, sir. He can live for all I care.”

“How very magnanimous!” said his grace with gentle satire. “Perhaps it may interest you to learn that the gentleman has been—er—induced to make a statement which obviates the need for your exile.”

Vidal turned his head, surveying his father with candid admiration. “I should like to know how you induced him to make such a statement, sir, I admit. But I did not leave England for fear of the runners.”

Avon smiled. “Did you not, my son?”

“No, sir, and you know it. I left at your command.”

“Very proper,” said his grace, rising. “I have no doubt I shall be weak enough to command your return—when you get back from Italy.” His eyes rested for an instant on Miss Challoner. “I comfort myself with the reflection that your wife will possibly be able to curb your desire—I admit, a natural one for the most part—to exterminate your fellows.”

“I shall try not to disappoint you, sir,” said Miss Challoner demurely.

It was past noon when Gaston returned with his charges. Miss Challoner felt extremely nervous of meeting the Duchess of Avon, but that lady’s entrance put all her fears to flight.

Her grace came into the parlour like a small whirlwind, and cast herself into her husband’s arms. “Monseigneur!” she cried joyfully. “I am so very glad you have come! I thought I should not have to tell you anything about it, but it is all so difficult I cannot manage it in the least, and Rupert will not try because he only thinks of getting all that wine home. Monseigneur, he has bought dozens and dozens of bottles of wine. I could not stop him. He says first he will hire a coach, and now he says no, it must go by canal.”

“It must undoubtedly go by canal,” said his grace, betraying a faint interest. He removed his ruffle from his wife’s clutch. “May I ask, Léonie, why you must needs elope with Rupert in this distressing fashion?”

“But do you not know, then?” she demanded. “If you don’t know, why are you here, Monseigneur? You are teasing me! Where is Dominique? Gaston said that he was with you.”

“He is,” said his grace.

“Then of course you know. Oh, Monseigneur, he says he will marry that girl, and I have a great fear she is like the sister whom I found detestable!”

The Duke took her hand and led her to Miss Challoner. “You shall judge for yourself,” he said. “This is Miss Challoner.”

The Duchess looked sharply up at him, and then at Mary, who stood still and looked gravely back at her. Léonie drew a long breath. “Voyons, are you the sister of that other one?” she demanded, not very lucidly.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mary.

“Vraiment? But it is not at all credible, I find. I do not want to be rude, but—”

“In that case, my love, you had better refrain from making the comparisons that are on the lips of your very unguarded tongue,” interposed his grace.

“I was not going to say anything indiscreet,” the Duchess assured him. “But I say one thing. If you do not like it, Monseigneur, I am sorry, but I am not going to permit that my son abducts this Mary Challoner and then does not marry her. I say he shall marry her at once, and Rupert shall fetch that Hammond person, who has the manners of a pig.”

“These continued references to Mr. Hammond—a gentleman quite unknown to me—I find most tedious,” complained his grace. “If his manners are those of a pig, I beg that Rupert will refrain from fetching him.”

“But you do not understand, Justin. He is a priest.”

“So I have been led to infer. I believe it will not be necessary for us to disturb him.”

The Duchess took Miss Challoner’s hand, and held it. She faced her husband resolutely. “Monseigneur, you must listen to me. When I thought that this child was—was—”

“Pray do not continue, my dear. I understand perfectly. If you will permit me to—”

“No, Monseigneur,” she said firmly. “This time it is I who must speak. When I thought this child was not a respectable person, I said Dominique should not marry her. I made Rupert bring me to Dijon because I thought I would be very clever and arrange everything so that you would never know—”

“This touching but misplaced confidence in your powers of concealment, ma mie—”

“Justin, you shall listen to me!” said the Duchess. “Of course I might have known you would find out—how did you, Monseigneur? It was very clever of you, I think. No, no, let me speak!—I meant that Dominique should not marry Mademoiselle Challoner. But now I have seen her, and I am not a fool, me, and she is a person entirely respectable, and this time I do not care what you may say, Dominique is to marry her.”

His grace looked down at her impassively. “Quite right, my dear. He is,” he said.

The Duchess opened her eyes very wide indeed. “You do not mind, Monseigneur?”

“I cannot conceive why I should be supposed to mind,” said his grace. “The marriage seems to be eminently desk-able.”

The Duchess let go of Miss Challoner to fling out her hands. “But, Monseigneur, if you do not mind why did you not say so at once?” she demanded.

“You may perhaps recall, my love, that you forbade me to speak.”

The Duchess paid no attention to this, but said with her usual buoyancy: “Voyons, now I am quite happy!” She looked at Mary again. “And you—I think you will be very good to my son, n’est-ce pas?”

Miss Challoner said: “I love him, ma’am. I can only say that. And—and thank you—for your____”

“Ah, bah!” Léonie said. “I do not want to be thanked. Where is Rupert? I must tell him at once that everything is arranged.”

Lord Rupert, who had evidently been detained outside, came into the room at this moment. He seemed preoccupied, and addressed himself at once to his brother. “Damme, Avon, I’m devilish glad you’ve come!” he said. “The Lord knows I never thought I should want to see you, but we’re in a plaguey difficulty.”

“No, we are not, Rupert!” Léonie told him. “It is all arranged.”

“Eh?” His lordship seemed surprised. “Who arranged it?”

“Oh, but Monseigneur, of course! They are to be married.”

Rupert said disgustedly: “Lord, can’t you think of aught beside that young fire-eater of yours?” He took hold of one of the silver buttons on his grace’s coat, and said confidentially: “It’s a mighty fortunate thing you’ve arrived, Avon, ’pon my soul it is. I’ve got six dozen of burgundy, and about three of as soft a port as ever I tasted, lying back in Dijon. I bought ’em off the landlord of some inn or another we stayed at, and the devil’s in it I can’t pay for ’em.”

“Monseigneur, I am quite ennuyée with this wine,” said Léonie, “Do not buy it! I do not wish to travel with bottles and bottles of wine.”

“May I request you to unhand me, Rupert?” said his grace. “If you have purchased port it must of course go by water. Did you bring a bottle with you?”