“No, Monseigneur. I think we are very happy without her. What shall we do to-day?”

But the Duke was not pleased. Rupert looked up at him with a grin.

“Never known you so mindful of the proprieties before, Justin, stap me if I have!”

He encountered a cold glance, and was instantly solemn.

“No offence, Avon, no offence! You can be as prudish as you like for aught I care. But she’s not.”

“Léonie,” said his Grace crushingly, “is as feather-brained as you, or nearly so.”

“Egad,” said Rupert irrepressibly, “I thought we’d not bask much longer in the sunshine of your approval.”

Léonie spoke aggrievedly.

“I am not as feather-brained as Rupert. You are very unkind to say so, Monseigneur.”

Rupert looked at her admiringly.

“That’s it, Léonie. Stand up to him, and hit out from the shoulder. It’s more than I ever did in my life!”

“I am not afraid of Monseigneur,” said Léonie, elevating her small nose. “You are just a coward, Rupert.”

“My child—” the Duke turned his head—“you forget yourself. You owe some gratitude to Rupert.”

“Hey, up I go, and down go you!” said Rupert. “Ecod, it’s a see-saw we’re on!”

“Monseigneur, I have been grateful to Rupert all the morning, and now I am not going to be grateful any longer. It makes me cross.”

“So I observe. Your manners leave much to be desired.”

“I think that you are very cross too,” Léonie ventured. “Voyons, what does it matter that Gaston does not come? He is silly, and fat, and Madame Field is like a hen. We do not want them.”

“Here’s a fine philosophic spirit!” cried Rupert. “You used to be much the same yourself, Justin. What’s come over you?”

Léonie turned to him in triumph.

“I told you he was different, Rupert, and you would only laugh! I never saw him so disagreeable before.”

“Lud, it’s easy to see you’ve not lived with him long!” said Rupert, audaciously.

His Grace came away from the window.

“You are an unseemly pair,” he said. “Léonie, you were wont to respect me more.”

She saw the smile in his eyes, and twinkled responsively.

“Monseigneur, I was a page then, and you would have punished me. Now I am a lady.”

“And do you think I cannot still punish you, my child?”

“Much she’d care!” chuckled Rupert.

“I should care!” Léonie shot at him. “I am sorry if Monseigneur only frowns!”

“The Lord preserve us!” Rupert closed his eyes.

“A little more,” said his Grace, “and you will not get up to-day, my son.”

“Oh, ay! You’ve the whip-hand!” sighed Rupert. “I’m silenced!” He shifted his position, and winced a little.

The Duke bent over him to rearrange the pillows.

“I am not sure that you will get up at all to-day, boy,” he said. “Is it easier?”

“Ay—I mean, I hardly feel it now,” lied his lordship. “Damme, I won’t stay abed any longer, Justin! At this rate we’ll never start for Paris!”

“We shall await your convenience,” said Avon.

“Mighty condescending of you,” smiled Rupert.

“You are not to be impertinent to Monseigneur, Rupert,” said Léonie sternly.

“I thank you, infant. It needs for someone to support my declining prestige. If you are to rise to-day you will rest now, Rupert. Léonie, an you wish to ride out I am at your disposal.”

She jumped up.

“I will go and put on my riding-dress at once. Merci, Monseigneur.”

“I’d give something to come with you,” said Rupert wistfully, when she had gone.

“Patience, child.” His Grace drew the curtains across the window. “Neither the doctor nor I keep you in bed for our amusement.”

“Oh, you’re a damned good nurse! I’ll say that for you,” grimaced Rupert. He smiled rather shyly up at his brother. “I’d not ask for a better.”

“In truth, I surprise myself sometimes,” said his Grace, and went out.

“Ay, and you surprise me, damme you do!” muttered Rupert. “I’d give something to know what’s come over you. Never was there such a change in anyone!”

And indeed his Grace was unusually kind during these irksome days and the biting sarcasm which had withered Rupert of yore was gone from his manner. Rupert puzzled over this inexplicable change for some time, and could find no solution to the mystery. But that evening when he reclined on the couch in the parlour, clad in his Grace’s clothes, he saw Avon’s eyes rest on Léonie for a moment, and was startled by their expression. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

“Thunder an’ turf!” he told himself. “He’s fallen in love with the chit!”

Tuesday brought no Gaston, and Avon’s frown grew blacker.

“Of a certainty Madame has died,” Léonie said wickedly. “Tiens, c’est bien drôle!”

“You have a perverted sense of humour, child,” said his Grace. “I have often remarked it. We start for Paris on Friday, Gaston or no Gaston.”

But soon after noon on Wednesday there was some bustle in the village street, and Rupert, seated by the parlour window, craned his neck to see if it were Gaston at last.

A hired coach of large dimensions drew up at the door, followed by another, piled high with baggage. From this vehicle Gaston leaped nimbly down, and ran to the door of the first coach. One of the lackeys let down the steps, the door was opened, and a serving maid climbed out. Behind her came a little lady enveloped in a large travelling cloak. Rupert stared, and burst out laughing.

“Egad, ’tis Fanny! Lord, who’d have thought it?”

Léonie ran to the window.

“It is! it is! Mon Dieu, que c’est amusant! Monseigneur, it is Lady Fanny!”

His Grace went in a leisurely fashion to the door.

“So I understand,” he said placidly. “I fear your unfortunate duenna is indeed dead, infant.” He opened the door. “Well, Fanny?”

Lady Fanny came briskly in, embraced him, and let fall her cloak to the ground.

“La, what a journey I have had! My sweetest love, are you safe indeed?” She embraced Léonie. “I have been in a fever of curiosity, I give you my word! I see you are wearing the muslin I sent you. I knew ’twould be ravishing, but never tie your sash like that, child! Oh, and there is Rupert! Poor boy, you look quite too dreadfully pale!”

Rupert held her off.

“Have done, Fan, have done! What in thunder brought you over?”

Lady Fanny stripped off her gloves.

“Since my cousin was nigh dead with the vapours, what would you?” she protested. “Besides, ’twas so monstrous exciting I declare I could not be still!”

The Duke put up his glass.

“May I ask whether the worthy Edward is aware that you have joined us?” he drawled.

My lady dimpled.

“I am so tired of Edward!” she said. “He has been most provoking of late. I doubt I have spoiled him. Only fancy, Justin, he said I must not come to you!”

“You astonish me,” said his Grace. “Yet I observe that you are here.”

“A pretty thing ’twould be an I let Edward think he could order me as he chooses!” cried her ladyship. “Oh, we have had a rare scene. I left a note for him,” she added naively.

“That should console him, no doubt,” said his Grace politely.

“I do not think it will,” she answered. “I expect he will be prodigious angry, but I pine for gaiety, Justin, and Gaston said you were bound for Paris!”

“I do not know that I shall take you, Fanny.”

She pouted.

“Indeed and you shall! I won’t be sent home. What would Léonie do for a chaperon if I went? For Harriet is in bed, my dear, and vows she can no more.” She turned to Léonie. “My love, you are vastly improved, ’pon rep you are! And that muslin becomes you sweetly. La, who gave you those pearls?”

“Monseigneur gave them to me,” Léonie said. “They are pretty, n’est-ce pas?”

“I would sell my eyes for them,” said her ladyship frankly, and shot a curious glance at her impassive brother. She sank down into a chair with much fluttering of skirts. “I implore you, tell me what happened to you, for Harriet is such a fool, and so taken up with her vapours that she can tell me naught but enough to whet my curiosity. I am nigh dead with it, I vow.”

“So,” said his Grace, “are we. Where do you come from, Fanny, and how have you had speech with Harriet?”

“Speech with her?” cried my lady. “Oh lud, Justin! ‘My head, my poor head!’ she moans, and: ‘She was ever a wild piece!’ Never a word more could I get from her. I was near to shaking her, I give you my word!”

“Be hanged to you, Fan, for a chatterbox!” exclaimed Rupert. “How came you to Avon?”

“Avon, Rupert? I protest I’ve not seen the place for nigh on a twelvemonth, though indeed I took some notion to visit my dearest Jennifer the other day. But it came to naught, for there was my Lady Fountain’s rout, and I could scarce leave——”

“Devil take Lady Fountain’s rout! Where’s my cousin?”

“At home, Rupert. Where else?”

“What, not with Edward?”

Fanny nodded vigorously.

“She should suit his humour,” murmured the Duke.

“I doubt she will not,” said Fanny pensively. “What a rage he will be in, to be sure! Where was I?”

“You were not, my dear. We are breathlessly awaiting your arrival.”

“How disagreeable of you, Justin! Harriet! Of course! Up she came to town in Gaston’s charge, and was like to expire in my arms. Some rigmarole she wept down my best taffeta, and at last held out your letter, Justin. She vowed she’d not come to France, do what you would. Then I had more wailings of her sickness did she so much as set eyes on the sea. Oh, I had a pretty time with her, I do assure you! She could but moan of an abduction, and Rupert’s hat found in Long Meadow, hard by the wood, and of some man come to find a horse, and you setting off for Southampton, Justin. ’Twas like the threads of a sampler with naught to stitch ’em to. Gaston could tell me little more—la, Justin, why will you have a fool to valet?—and the end of it was that I was determined to come and see for myself and find what ’twas all about. Then, if you please, what says Edward but that I am not to go! ’Pon rep, things have come to a pretty pass between us, thought I! So when he went away to White’s—no, it was the Cocoa Tree, I remember, for he was to meet Sir John Cotton there—I set Rachel to pack my trunks, and started off with Gaston to come to you. Me voici, as Léonie would say.”