His world was rocking before him. A woman—a fury, of course—had had the hideous presumption to turn him down. His advances had been rejected: his condescension had been actually flung in his face: he had been offered gross, gratuitous insult. The dove he had deigned to nourish had turned serpent. The female he had demeaned himself to favour had turned and rent him—_him_, Labotte, knight and sportsman. . . . The indecency of the affair made his brain reel. Dazedly he put a hand to his head. “No one ’as never speak to me so—nevare,” he announced dramatically. “Eef you was a man——” “Be thankful,” said Miss Crail, “that I am not. Why, you wouldn’t ride for weeks,” she added pleasantly. Labotte blenched. The reflection, however, that sex cannot be changed at will steadied him almost at once. He took a pace backward and bowed. “I go,” he said stiffly, “bud nod begauze you ’af say so. No.” Susan began to shake with laughter. “The only reason wot I ’af got ees that I will blease myselve. Oh, yes. Eet ees very fine to laugh,” he added violently. “It ees a gread jork to make slaps when you are very safe that they cannot be render: but eet ees you shall waid, Mees Crail, an’ fin’ whether you shall ’af make these blace too ’ott for you to ’old.” He turned and sauntered away with such nonchalance as he could muster. When he was out of sight, Susan went to her room, sank into a chair, buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Upon the next floor Nicholas was pulling his moustache and covering his third mile upon an Aubusson carpet of great beauty. Three rooms away Labotte was savaging a pillow. “_Sapristi!_” he mouthed. “_Mais je vous montrerai, Speet smoke, qu’on ne gagne rien à insulter un sportsman._” * * * * * Nicholas very nearly returned to Town. The man was shocked. At one and the same moment he had made two striking discoveries—severally harmless enough, but jointly corrosive. The first was that Susan Crail was a waster: the second, that he loved her very much. What made things infinitely worse was that, as women go, she was a queen. Spotted silk is so much worse than stained sackcloth. Unearthing more bitterness, he reflected that never again would he be offered the blessed opportunity of wooing without his title to promote his suit. He avoided Susan but watched her, taking care to conceal his disappointment and wearing it on his sleeve. Susan could have wept, was careful to appear blithesome and got away with it. Labotte was as good as his word. His vanity had been outraged. Very well. All the chivalry of the man rose up in condemnation of the foul deed. His hate had to be served. After surveying his dirty armoury with a malevolent stare, he turned his attention to his opponent’s harness. Almost immediately he perceived a vulnerable spot.