“_Your mother?_” she whispered. Nicholas nodded. “I want you to take her place. . . . You see, I’m—I’m not married, darling.” Susan started violently, and the man set a hand on her shoulder. “I’m—I’m not that Kilmuir.” “O-o-oh!” For a moment she stared at him wildly. Then she closed her eyes, let her head fall and buried her face in her hands. Nicholas continued steadily. “It isn’t much to offer—a share in my lonely life. But it won’t be lonely any more if you’ll accept it. I never thought I should marry. I never thought I’ld find anyone I’ld care to see in her place. And then . . . at last . . . I saw you. . . . And the moment I saw you, I knew . . . I’m poor, you know, but if you’d been worth twenty millions, I’ld ’ve asked you to be my wife. You see, I love you, my lady: and so I can’t help myself. I love your beautiful temples and the droop of your precious lips: I love your grave grey eyes and your sweet pretty ways . . .” He hesitated. Then, “I warn you, I won’t be able to give you much of a time. I can’t even afford a car, Susan. At least, I haven’t been able to yet. But I think, if we were careful, perhaps . . .” He took her wrists and drew her hands from her face. She continued to hang her head. “Oh, my blessed lady, I want you so much: and, as you don’t mind the cold and the quiet, don’t you think you could——” “_Noblesse oblige_,” wailed the girl. “_Noblesse oblige._” “Oh, you darling,” cried Nicholas, lifting her to her feet. Susan flung up her head and stared at the face of her squire three inches away. With his arms about her, Nicholas smiled back. “I confess,” he said, “I’ld ’ve liked to feel that you loved me, but I’ld rather you took me out of pity than not at all.” A child put her hands on his shoulders. “Do you really love me?” she whispered. Nicholas smiled down. “No,” he said. “I’m doing it out of pity.” A radiant, mischievous look leapt into the child’s grey eyes. “I don’t believe you,” she said, and put up her mouth. * * * * * Ten glorious minutes had passed, and Susan and Nicholas were standing in the _salon bleu_, drinking each other’s healths in rose-coloured Clicquot. Ten or twelve fellow-guests were hard by, flicking their several appetites with the same beverage. Among them, their recent difference adjusted, were ‘the Duke of Culloden’ and Labotte. The latter’s hand was bandaged and reclining in a sling. A servant entered with a card. This he took directly to ‘the Duke.’ The youth glanced at it and frowned. “Say I’m not here,” he said. The servant bowed and turned away. “Stop,” said Nicholas John. The servant hesitated, and a hush fell upon the room. “Bring me that card.” With an apologetic glance at ‘Culloden,’ the fellow did as he was bid. Nicholas picked up the card and read the name. “Where is _Monsieur le Comte_?” “_Monsieur le Comte est couché._” “_Et Madame?_” “_Madame aussi, Monsieur._” “Then show this gentleman in.”