"Get a new hat to wear in the royal presence," added Peckover, remembering that attribute of Spanish Grandees which he had read of in the "interesting items" column of a weekly paper. "He is, I believe, devotedly in love with Ulrica, apart from her fortune," continued his companion. "And of course from the point of view of mere rank and grandeur, the alliance would have been quite desirable. But, after all, an English girl should marry an Englishman, that is my feeling and the wish of Ulrica's father; and so we have come down here to let the storm of the Duke de Salolja's passion blow itself out." "I see," said Peckover thoughtfully, wondering how much of the storm was true, since his last habit of mind was naturally now prone to suspicion and to look askance at unwarranted confidences. CHAPTER XXVII "Well, Percy, my boy, what do you tot them up to come to?" inquired Gage jovially as they turned from an impressive adieu to their guests who drove off radiant--at least as far as Lady Ormstork was concerned--at the success of their visit. "They're all right," Peckover answered somewhat gloomily. Considering the poor time he had had as the medium through which the wily peeress desired to convey certain information to his friend he could scarcely be expected to emulate that gentleman's enthusiasm. "Right? I should think so," Gage exclaimed with emphasis. "The girl is simply scrumptious." "I dare say," Peckover returned, with a jealous twinge. "Rather different from our friends at the Moat, eh?" "Slightly. There's no comparison. She's a real beauty, and full of fun." "Oh, you found that out, did you?" Peckover observed curiously. "Rather. This is the sort of Lord Quorn I'm paying for." "She has a lot of money," said Peckover. "How do you know?" "The old lady-bird told me so. Confidential old party. Good as admitted they had come down here to have a dash at you." "Me?" cried Gage, much interested. "Your title. Or, rather mine," his friend declared sombrely, so dismally, indeed, that Gage said-- "Come, you are not going to repent? This is what I paid for. I told you so at the outset." "Oh, yes," Peckover agreed. "It's fair enough," and with the image of Miss Buffkin's commanding beauty in his heart, he darkly resolved to try whether some of her smiles might not in future be for him. Lady Ormstork was, as might have been confidently anticipated, as good as her word. Almost every day she brought the fair Miss Buffkin to Staplewick, and on those that were missed the two friends contrived to find an excuse for calling at Cracknels, as the villa, built by a retired biscuit baker, was named. The game was not a very pleasant one for Peckover, seeing that in it the dowager was invariably his partner, nevertheless he continued to stick to it doggedly in the hope that his opportunity for making running with the captivating Ulrica would surely come.