“Justin, have done with this affectation! You can have no need of a page at Vassaud’s, and it’s no place for such a child!”

“My very dear Hugh, I do wish you would allow me to know my own mind,” answered Justin sweetly. “The page goes with me. Another whim.”

“But why? The child should be in bed!”

Justin flicked a speck of snuff from his coat.

“You force me to remind you, Hugh, that the page is mine.”

Davenant compressed his lips, and swung out of the door. Nonchalantly his Grace followed.

Vassaud’s was crowded, early in the evening though it was. The two men left their cloaks with the lackey in the vestibule, and proceeded, with Léon in their wake, across the hall to the broad stairway which led to the gaming-rooms on the first floor. Hugh saw a friend, standing at the foot of the stairs, and paused to exchange a greeting, but Avon swept on, bowing slightly to right and left as some chance acquaintance hailed him. He did not stop to speak to anyone, although several called to him as he passed, but went on his regal way with just a faint smile in his lips.

Léon followed him close, his blue eyes wide with interest. He attracted some attention, and many were the curious glances cast from him to the Duke. He flushed delicately when he encountered such a glance, but his Grace appeared to be quite unaware of the surprise he had created.

“What ails Alastair now?” inquired the Chevalier d’Anvau, who was standing with one De Salmy in a recess on the staircase.

“Who knows?” De Salmy shrugged elegantly. “He must ever be unusual. Good evening, Alastair.”

The Duke nodded to him.

“I rejoice to see you, De Salmy. A hand of piquet later?”

De Salmy bowed.

“I shall be delighted.” He watched Avon pass on, and shrugged again. “He bears himself as though he were the king of France. I mislike those strange eyes. Ah, Davenant, well met!”

Davenant smiled pleasantly.

“You here? A crowd, is it not?”

“All Paris,” agreed the Chevalier. “Why has Alastair brought his page?”

“I have no idea, Justin is never communicative. I see Destourville is back.”

“Ah yes, he arrived last night. You have no doubt heard the scandal?”

“Oh, my dear Chevalier, I never listen to scandal!” Hugh laughed, and went on up the stairs.

“Je me demande,” remarked the Chevalier, watching Hugh’s progress through his eyeglass, “why it is that the good Davenant is a friend of the bad Alastair?”

The salon on the first floor was brilliantly lighted, and humming with gay, inconsequent conversation. Some were already at play, others were gathered about the buffet, sipping their wine. Hugh saw Avon through the folding doors that led into a smaller salon, the centre of a group, his page standing at a discreet distance behind him.

A muttered exclamation near him made him turn his head. A tall, rather carelessly dressed man was standing beside him, looking across the room at Léon. He was frowning, and his heavy mouth was shut hard. Through the powder his hair glinted red, but his arched brows were black, and very thick.

“Saint-Vire?” Hugh bowed to him. “You are wondering at Alastair’s page? A freak, is it not?”

“Your servant, Davenant. A freak, yes. Who is the boy?”

“I do not know. Alastair found him yesterday. He is called Léon. I trust Madame your wife is well?”

“I thank you, yes. Alastair found him, you say? What does that mean?”

“Here he comes,” answered Hugh. “You had best ask him.”

Avon came up with a swish of silken skirts, and bowed low to the Comte de Saint-Vire.

“My dear Comte!” The hazel eyes mocked. “My very dear Comte!”

Saint-Vire returned the bow abruptly.

“M. le Duc!”

Justin drew forth his jewelled snuff-box, and presented it. Tall as he was, Saint-Vire was made to look insignificant beside this man of splendid height, and haughty bearing.

“A little snuff, dear Comte? No?” He shook the foaming ruffles back from his white hand, and very daintily took a pinch of snuff. His thin lips were smiling, but not pleasantly.

“Saint-Vire was admiring your page, Justin,” Davenant said. “He is exciting no little attention.”

“No doubt.” Avon snapped his fingers imperiously, and Léon came forward. “He is almost unique, my dear Comte. Pray look your fill.”

“Your page is of no interest to me, m’sieur,” Saint-Vire answered shortly, and turned aside.

“Behind me.” The command was given coldly, and at once Léon stepped back. “The so worthy Comte! Comfort him, Hugh.” Avon passed on again, and in a little while was seated at a card table, playing lansquenet.

Davenant was called to another table presently, and proceeded to play at faro, with Saint-Vire as his partner. A foppish gentleman sat opposite him, and started to deal.

“Mon cher, your friend is always so amusing. Why the page?” He glanced towards Avon’s table.

Hugh gathered up his cards.

“How should I know, Lavoulčre? Doubtless he has a reason. And—forgive me—I am weary of the subject.”

“He is so—so arresting,” apologized Lavoulčre. “The page. Red hair—oh, but of a radiance!—and blue, blue eyes. Or are they purple-black? The little oval face, and the patrician nose——! Justin is wonderful. You do not think so, Henri?”

“Oh, without doubt!” Saint-Vire answered. “He should have been an actor. Quant ŕ moi, I would humbly suggest that enough notice has been taken of the Duc and his page. Your play, Marchérand.”

At Avon’s table one of the gamblers yawned, pushing back his chair.

“Mille pardons, but I thirst! I go in search of refreshment.”

The game had come to an end, and Justin was toying with his dice-box. He glanced up now, and waved to Château-Mornay to keep his seat.

“My page will fetch wine, Louis. He is not only to be gazed upon. Léon!”

Léon slipped from behind Avon’s chair, from where he had been an intent spectator of the game.

“Monseigneur?”

“Canary and burgundy, at once.”

Léon withdrew, and nervously threaded his way between the tables to the buffet. He returned presently with a tray, which he presented to Justin, on one knee. Justin pointed silently to where Château-Mornay sat, and, blushing for his mistake, Léon went to him, and again presented the tray. When he had served each one in turn he looked inquiringly up at his master.

“Go to M. Davenant, and ask him if he has commands for you,” said Justin languidly. “Will you hazard a throw with me, Cornalle?”

“Ay, what you will.” Cornalle pulled a dice-box from his pocket. “Two ponies? Will you throw?”

Justin cast his dice carelessly on the table, and turned his head to watch Léon. The page was at Davenant’s elbow. Davenant looked up.

“Well, Léon? What is it?”

“Monseigneur sent me, m’sieur, to see if you had commands for me.”

Saint-Vire shot him a quick look, leaning back in his chair, one hand lying lightly clenched on the table.

“Thank you, no,” Hugh replied. “Unless—Saint-Vire, will you drink with me? And you, messieurs?”

“I thank you, Davenant,” said the Comte. “You have no thirst, Lavoulčre?”

“At the moment, no. Oh, if you all must drink, then so will I!”

“Léon, will you fetch burgundy, please?”

“Yes, m’sieur,” bowed Léon. He was beginning to enjoy himself. He walked away again, looking about him appreciatively. When he returned he made use of the lesson just learned at Avon’s table, and presented the silver tray first to Saint-Vire.

The Comte turned in his chair and, picking up the decanter, slowly poured out a glassful, and handed it to Davenant. He poured out another, his eyes on Léon’s face. Conscious of the steady regard Léon looked up, and met Saint-Vire’s eyes frankly. The Comte held the decanter poised, but poured no more for a long minute.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Léon, m’sieur.”

Saint-Vire smiled.

“No more?”

The curly head was shaken.

“Je ne sais plus rien, m’sieur.”

“So ignorant?” Saint-Vire went on with his work. As he picked up the last glass he spoke again. “Methinks you have not been long with M. le Duc?”

“No, m’sieur. As m’sieur says.” Léon rose, and looked across at Davenant. “M’sieur?”

“That is all, Léon, thank you.”

“So you have found a use for him, Hugh? Was I not wise to bring him? Your servant, Lavoulčre.”

The soft voice startled Saint-Vire, and his hand shook, so that a little liquid was spilled from his glass. Avon stood at his side, quizzing-glass raised.

“A very prince of pages,” smiled Lavoulčre. “How is your luck to-night, Justin?”

“Wearisome,” sighed the Duke. “For a week it has been impossible to lose. From the dreamy expression on Hugh’s face I infer that it is not so with him.” He went to stand behind Hugh’s chair, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Belike, my dear Hugh, I shall bring you better luck.”

“I have never known you do that yet,” retorted Davenant. He set down his emptied glass. “Shall we play again?”

“By all means,” nodded Saint-Vire. “You and I are in a sad way, Davenant.”

“And shall soon be in a sadder,” remarked Hugh, shuffling the pack. “Remind me, Lavoulčre, that in future I only play with you as my partner.” He dealt the cards round, and, as he did so, spoke quietly to the Duke, in English. “Send the child downstairs, Alastair. You have no need of him.”

“I am as wax in your hands,” replied his Grace. “He has served his turn. Léon, you will await me in the hall.” He stretched out his hand to pick up Hugh’s cards. “Dear me!” He laid them down again, and watched the play in silence for a while.