Léonie said indignantly: “Rupert, I do not care what you do, but I wish to present you to Mademoiselle Challoner, who is to marry Dominique.”

His lordship was roused to look round. “What, is she here?” He perceived Mary at last. “So you’re the girl that confounded nevvy of mine ran off with!” he said. “I wish you joy of him, my dear. A pretty dance you’ve led us. You’ll forgive me if I leave you at this present. There’s a little matter demanding my attention. Now, Avon, I’m with you.

Léonie called after him: “But Rupert, Rupert! Where are Juliana and M. Comyn?”

Rupert looked back from the doorway to say: They’ll be here soon enough. Too soon for my liking. Stap me if ever I saw such a pair for ogling and holding hands. It’s enough to turn a man’s stomach. Their chaise fell behind.’

He went out as he spoke, and Léonie turned to Miss Challoner with a gesture of resignation. “He is mad, you understand. You must not be offended with him, for presently he will recover, I assure you.”

“I could not be offended, ma’am,” said Miss Challoner. “He makes me want to laugh.” She moved a little away from the Duchess. “Madame, are you—are you sure that you wish me to marry your son?”

Léonie nodded. “But yes, I am quite sure, petite.” She sat down by the fire, and held out her hand. “Come, ma chère, you shall tell me all about it, please, and—I think, not cry, hein?”

Miss Challoner dabbed at her eyes. “No, ma’am, certainly not cry,” she said rather tremulously.

Ten minutes later Miss Marling came in to find her friend seated at the Duchess’s feet, with both her hands clasped in Léonie’s. She said brightly: “Oh, Aunt Léonie, is it all decided, then? Has my Uncle Justin given his consent? I vow it is famous!”

Léonie released Miss Challoner and stood up. “Yes, it is quite famous, as you say, Juliana, for now I am to have a daughter, which will amuse me very much, and Dominique is to make no more scandals. Where is M. Comyn? Do not tell me you have quarrelled again?”

“Good gracious, no!” replied Juliana, shocked. “Uncle Rupert met us in the hall, and he took Frederick off with him to that room over the way. I think they are all there. I am certain I saw Vidal.”

“Voyons, it is insupportable!” said her grace. “Do they all go off to drink Rupert’s wine? I won’t have it!” She went quickly out into the hall with Miss Challoner, who followed in the direction of her accusingly levelled finger, and frankly laughed. Through the archway that gave on to the coffee-room the outraged Duchess could see her son, seated on the edge of a table with one foot swinging, and a glass in his hand. Lord Rupert was in the background, holding a bottle, and speaking to somebody outside Léonie’s range of vision. A burst of laughter set the seal to her grace’s wrath She promptly walked into the coffee-room, saw that not only Mr. Comyn, but her husband also, was there, and said reproachfully: “But I find you extremely rude, all of you! One would say this wine of Rupert’s, of which I have already heard enough, was of more importance than the betrothal of Dominique. Ma fille, come here!”

Miss Challoner came and shook her head. “Dreadful, madam!” she said.

“Devil a bit!” said Lord Rupert. “We’re drinking your health, my dear.” He saw Vidal smile across at Miss Challoner, and raise his glass in a silent toast, and said hastily: “That’ll do, Vidal, that’ll do! Don’t start fondling, for the love of God, for I can’t bear it. Well, what d’ye say, Justin? Will you buy it or not?”

His grace sipped the wine, while Lord Rupert watched him anxiously. The Duke said: “Almost the only evidence of intelligence I find in you, Rupert, lies in your ability to pick a wine. Decidedly I will buy it.”

“Now that’s devilish good of you, ’pon my word it is!” said his lordship. “Damme, if I don’t let you have a dozen bottles of it!”

“Your generosity, my dear Rupert, quite overwhelms me,” said his grace with polite gratitude.

Léonie stared at his lordship. “Let Monseigneur—oh, but that is too much, enfin!”

“No, no,” replied his lordship recklessly. “He shall have a dozen: that’s fair enough. Give your mother a glass, Vidal—oh, and what’s the girl’s name? Sophia! Give her a glass too, for I’ve—”

“Mary!” snapped the Marquis, with a sudden frown. _

His uncle was quite unabashed. “Mary! so it is. Sophia was t’other one. Well, give her a glass, my boy. I’ve a toast for you to drink.”

Léonie accepted the glass her son handed her. “Yes, it is true that I wish very much to drink to my son and daughter,” she said. “Go on, Rupert.”

His lordship raised his glass. “Dijon!” he said quite unheeding, and drank deeply.