He at once perceived that the latter was doing his best to please and decided to exploit the endeavour. He therefore directed attention to the poor labourer by laughing and nudging his neighbours and presently mimicking the manner of his host. “Yess, yess,” cried Boschetto, by way of hearty agreement with the unpleasant youth’s remarks. “Yess, yess,” echoed Labotte, grinning. “Yess, yess,” repeated Boschetto unconsciously. “We ’af no bananas,” said Labotte. His host flushed painfully, endeavouring to contribute to the laughter in which his loose-lipped patron joined. “You know,” continued Labotte, taking the stage and indicating his host, “’e says to me one day, ‘Labotte, I ’af feer I am dull. I weesh that I could mague my guess-s laugh.’ An’ I say to ’im, ‘My frien’, you do this more better than you know.’” There was a shriek of laughter. Labotte looked round grinning. “Am I not right—yes?” Boschetto fell away, chuckling in a queer, strained way, while Labotte engaged the youth in a discussion of the gaieties of Town. Culloden stepped to Boschetto and began to admire the room. “Indeed, it’s all so admirable. Not only the château, but the establishment. It’s a privilege to be here. You think of everything. I tell you, Count, I know some people in England who think they can entertain, but if they could see this they’ld go and jump off somewhere. Why are you so kind to us all?” The Count blinked at him. “Thank you,” he said tremulously. “Thank you.” The American girl was speaking. “To-day,” she said, “he took me for such a lovely drive. Didn’t you, Count?” Her host drew himself up. “I’ af enjoy every minute,” he said most earnestly. The girl appealed to Culloden. “You see?” she said. “He won’t let anyone thank him. He gives us all the very time of our lives——” “I am dull,” said Boschetto. The girl took his arm. “What awful rot,” she said. She turned to Culloden. “You ought to hear him on Europe. I wonder how many people in this room——” “Yes, but you was an angel,” said Boschetto gravely. He glanced at his watch, begged to be excused and made his way to a servant with an anxious air. . . . “Who,” said Culloden, “are the young chevaliers?” The girl smiled. “The one in pink,” she said, “is Monsieur Labotte—a man, as you have seen, of singular taste and charm. The other—well, surely you know who that is.” “I haven’t the faintest idea.” “Aren’t you English?” “I’m a Scotsman.” “Worse and worse,” laughed the girl. “My good sir, that is the Duke of Culloden.” * * * * * Two days and two hours had gone by, and Nicholas John Kilmuir was enjoying himself very much.