He was royally lodged, admirably served, superbly fed. What was still more to his taste, he went incognito. ‘Incognito’? No one had the remotest idea who he was—except that he was _not_ the Duke of Culloden. To turn to smaller mercies, the weather was brilliant, and his time was his own. Moreoever, his conscience was clear—whenever Boschetto saw him, a pleased light crept into the dull, strained eyes. . . . But that was not nearly all. First, there was the spectacle of an impostor, whose arrival on Monday had been taken for that of His Grace, deliberately exploiting the error, accepting the fervent homage of a perfectly poisonous crowd and generally playing such ‘tricks before high Heaven as make the angels weep.’ Secondly, there was Susan Armitage Crail. . . . “I should like,” said Nicholas John, “to ask you to dance. But a recent bereavement. . . .” Miss Crail raised her sweet eyebrows. “I’ve heard some excuses,” she bubbled, “but that’s the very best. It suggests shades of mourning of which the average relict never dreams.” “He wasn’t a relation,” said Nicholas. “Only a—an intimate connection. And I’m not really mourning. We got on admirably for many years, and then at the last he got above himself. Indeed, he caused me much pain, before—before he . . . passed over.” Miss Crail frowned. “Why not ‘died’?” she demanded. “Don’t say you’re——” “Can appendices die?” said Nicholas. Susan Crail stared and then fell into silvery laughter. Kilmuir regarded her gravely. There was about this girl a natural dignity which no manner of mirth could subvert. The pride of her red mouth was gone: the grave eyes were fairly dancing with merriment; she was unconscious of anything save that she was amused. Yet—hers was the amusement of a great lady. And of such was her charm. More. The girl had depth, quality: she did not require to be amused. There seemed to be things other than dalliance which were dreamt of in her philosophy. “What should I do without you?” said Nicholas John. “I expect you’ld play Bridge,” said Susan. The man shook his head. “I suppose I should read,” he said. “I’ve nothing in common here with anyone else.” “You haven’t tried,” said Susan. “That little French girl with the glorious mop of hair. . . .” “Can you see me?” said Nicholas John. “Do we look as if we should get on? I tell you I can’t—er—chatter. I’ld like to tell you what beautiful arms you’ve got, but I can’t put it into words.” “Hush,” said Susan. “You mustn’t say things like that.” “Why?” Steadily grey eyes met brown. “Because they ring true. I know now that you think I have beautiful arms. I haven’t, but that’s beside the point. I know you think I have. If anyone else said so, I should know they were telling the tale. But you—you mean what you say.” “I hope so. But that’s no reason. Why shouldn’t I——”