“Nay, don’t fidget yourself on my account, ma’am!” Hugo said, laughing. “I’m not so nesh as my cousin! I’ve been used to sleep in a room that had a fire in the middle of the floor, and not so much as a vent to off the smoke, so it will need more than a puff or two blown down the chimney to make me uncomfortable.”

His voice, which was a deep one, had a carrying quality. His words were heard by everyone in the room, and were productive of a sudden, shocked silence. He glanced innocently round the table, and added: “A mud floor, of course.”

“How—how horrid for you!” said Mrs. Darracott faintly.

Chollacombe, with great presence of mind, refilled the Major’s glass at this moment, contriving, as he did so, to give him a warning nudge. The Major, not susceptible to hints, said cheerfully: “Oh, it was noan so bad! I was glad to have a roof over my head in those days!”

Mrs. Darracott looked wildly round for help, and received it from an unexpected quarter.

“Don’t look so dismayed, my dear aunt!” said Vincent. “The locality of this dismal dwelling-place was not, as I apprehend, Yorkshire, but Spain.”

“Portugal,” corrected Hugo, as impervious to insult as to hints.

“Most interesting!” pronounced Lady Aurelia majestically. “No doubt you have seen a great deal of the world during the course of your military service?”

“I have and-all!” agreed Hugo.

“The billeting arrangements in the Peninsula,” stated her ladyship, “left much to be desired.”

“Ay, sometimes they did, but at others, think on, they were better nor like,” said Hugo reflectively. “After Toulouse I shared quarters with the Smiths in a chateau, and lived like a prince. That was in France, of course. A chateau,” he explained, “is what the Frogs call a castle—though it wasn’t a castle, not by any means. You might call it a palace.”

“Our ignorance is now enlightened,” murmured Vincent.

“We all know what a chateau is!” snapped Lord Darracott.

“Ay, you would, of course,” said Hugo, on a note of apology. “Eh, but I thought myself in clover! I’d never been in such a place before—except when I was in prison, but you can’t reetly count that.”

James, the first footman, let a fork slide from the plate he had just removed from the table, but Charles, deftly nipping away the plate before Lady Aurelia, maintained his equilibrium. James was shocked, but Charles was storing up these revelations with glee. A rare tale to recount to his Dad, so niffy-naffy as he was about the Quality! Properly served out was old Stiff-Rump, with a jail-bird for his grandson!

“What?”thundered his lordship, glaring at his heir. “Do you tell me that you have been in prison?”

“Ay, but it wasn’t for long, sir,” replied Hugo. “Of course, I was nobbut a lad then, and it seemed a terrible thing to me. I had the fever, too, mortal bad!”

Claud, perceiving that the rest of the company was deprived of speech, made a gallant attempt to respond. “Nasty thing, jail-fever,” he said chattily. “Not had it myself, but so they tell me! Very glad you recovered from it, coz!”

“It was being transported set me to reets,” said Hugo. “A rare, tedious voyage we had of it, but—”

“Transported?”interjected his lordship, gripping the arms of his chair till his knuckles shone. “You were transported, sir?”

“We all were,” said Hugo. “The most of us three parts dead with fever, and that ashamed—! Eh, it doesn’t bear thinking on! Such a voyage as it was, too! Close on five months it was before we landed, for the transport I was on carried away its rudder in a gale, and we ran four hundred miles out of our course before the Swallow towed us into Falmouth, and then we had to sail on to the Downs before they’d let us ashore.”

A delightful chuckle broke from Richmond. “I thought that was it! You are the most complete hand, Cousin Hugo!”

“I collect,” said Matthew coldly, “that when you speak of having been imprisoned, and—er—transported, you mean that you were a prisoner-of-war?”

‘‘Why, what did you think I meant?” asked Hugo, much astonished.

“You must forgive us!” said Vincent, leaning forward to speak to him across Anthea. “The thought that you had been imprisoned for poaching, perhaps, did, I fancy, occur to some of us.”

“Nay! I’ve always been respectable!” countered Hugo.

At this point, Anthea, who had been surprised into turning her head to stare at him, lowered her eyes rather swiftly to her plate again, and took her underlip between her teeth. Matthew, far more conscious than his parent of the presence of the servants, said, with a tolerable assumption of amusement: “You are, as Richmond says, a complete hand. From the length of time your voyage lasted I am led to suppose that you took part in our ill-fated expedition to South America?”

“That’s reet,” nodded Hugo. “I joined as soon as I left—as soon as I was seventeen. I was gazetted to the 1st Battalion just in time to set sail with Whitelock. A rare piece of good fortune I thought it, but all I got out of it was a fever that mighty near carried me off, and a horse. I paid three dollars for him, I remember. Eh, but I was a Johnny Raw! I could have had him for two.”

“Did you take part in the assault on Buenos Ayres?” asked Richmond.

“I wouldn’t, myself, call it an assault,” replied Hugo.

“A disgracefully mismanaged affair!” said Matthew.

“Ay, we suffered a bad back-cast. Our people wrote up that General Whitelock was a coward, or a traitor, or maybe both, on all the street-corners in Montevideo, but, myself, I think he was no more than a sacklass hodgobbin.” He drank off his wine, and grinned. “The men used to drink success to greybeards but bad luck to white locks,” he disclosed.

“And then?” Richmond prompted.

Hugo smiled at him. “Oh, then I was packed off home, on sick furlough, for there was nothing of me left but skin and bone!”

“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Darracott, her motherly instincts stirred. “How shocked your mama must have been! But I am persuaded she soon nursed you back to health.”

“Nay, my mother died a year before I joined,” he answered.

“Oh, poor boy!” she exclaimed, braving her father-in-law’s displeasure. “But perhaps you have other relatives?”

“I’d my grandfather,” he said. “Mother was all the children he had. Happen it was Yorkshire air and good Yorkshire food that plucked me up.”

“Were you at Corunna?” asked Richmond.

Hugo nodded; but before Richmond could beg for further information Lord Darracott intervened, saying harshly that he desired to hear no talk about the war at his dinner table. Hugo, accepting this snub with what appeared to be unshakeable placidity, then retired from the conversation, to discuss with an excellent appetite a large helping of apple pie.

The rest of the meal passed without incident. For perhaps the first time in all the years she had lived at Darracott Place it was with reluctance that Mrs. Darracott gave the signal for the departure of the ladies from the board. Her compassion had been roused, and it went to her heart to leave her enormous but hapless nephew to the mercy of his hostile male relations.

In the event, it was not Hugo but Claud who drew my lord’s fire. When the cloth had been removed, it was the custom of the house not only that decanters of port and madeira should be set before his lordship, but that three jars of snuff should be placed on the table. My lord was a connoisseur; he mixed his own sort, but provided for his guests Old Bureau, King’s Martinique, and Hardman’s ’37. He invited no one but Vincent to help himself from his gold box, and was amused rather than offended when that elegant young man, declining the honour, drew out a box of his own, and snapped it open with a flick of his thumb, saying: “Try some of mine, sir! I shall value your opinion.”

“Mixed it yourself, did you?” said his lordship. He helped himself to a pinch, and inhaled it critically. “Too much Brazil!” he said. “Why don’t you come to me for a recipe? All the same, you young—” He broke off suddenly, his gaze fixed in wrath and stupefaction on Claud, who had produced a small silver shovel and a haresfoot from his pocket, and was preparing, in happy unconsciousness of the baleful stare bent upon him, to scoop some snuff out of the jar in front of him. “What the devil—?” demanded his lordship, in such stridulous accents that Claud, startled, looked up, and promptly dropped his little shovel. “Well?” said his lordship. “Well, popinjay?”

“Put that thing away, you young fool!” said Matthew, in a vexed undervoice. “Making a figure of yourself—!”

“I ain’t making a figure of myself!” returned Claud indignantly. “Assure you, sir! Quite the go! You take the snuff in the shovel, to save dabbling your fingers, and if you spill any on your coat you brush it off in a trice with the haresfoot, like—”

“I’ll have no such infernal foppery in my house!” declared his lordship. “Good God, that any grandson of mine should find nothing better to do than to spend his time thinking what extravagant folly he can next commit!”

“My dear sir, you are blaming the innocent!” said Vincent. “The guilty person is Thingwall: the Trig-and-Trim dandy, you know. That’s one of his tricks. It is the tragedy of Claud’s life that he has never yet been able to hit upon a new quirk of fashion, but is always obliged to copy other men.”

“Well, you needn’t sneer!” retorted Claud, flushing. “You only started driving pickaxe in the Park because Brading did so!”

“Not at all, brother. Brading followed my lead.”

“That’s enough, that’s enough!” interposed Matthew, removing the snuff-jar from Claud’s reach, and pushing it towards Hugo. “Help yourself, if you like this sort!”