“_Bien, Monsieur_,” said the man, and made his escape. . . . Amid an electric silence Nicholas picked up his glass and drank comfortably. Susan was touching his arm. “Nicholas! What are you doing?” Her lover turned with a swift smile. “I want him to meet you, lady.” “But——” Labotte was before them, speaking acidly. “Your frien’ ’as nod seem to unnerstan’——” “Address yourself to me,” said Kilmuir. Labotte stared. Then he looked Nicholas up and down. “I am nod a servant,” he said. “No,” said the other. “I knew that by your coat.” Labotte drew himself up. “I do nod know ’oo you are,” he said loftily, “an’ I do nod gare, but eet ees good you shall know that in France when a gennelman ’as gommanded it was nod use to gommand the opposide in ’is faze. You ’af ’ear my frien’ dell that ’e was nod to be seen an’ then you mus’ put your lorng norse to a thing which ’as not belong to you at oll an’ make jus’ the same business as my frien’ ’as nod wand.” “And what,” said Nicholas, “is it to do with you? Why don’t you let him—Hullo, he’s cleared.” Labotte swung round. Then he spread out his hands. “Ov gourse ’e ’as gorn,” he cried. “Eet ees you wot ’ave drive ’im away. ’E ’as say ’e is nod to be seen, an’ then you mus’ . . .” Here a nice-looking man with a merry eye was ushered into the room. As he stepped forward— “Hullo, Berry,” said Nicholas, taking his hand. “Nice of you to come up.” “Yes, isn’t it touching?” said Berry. Nicholas turned to Susan, staring, big-eyed. “This, dear, is Major Pleydell—a very old friend. Berry, this is Susan—Miss Susan Crail. She’s just promised to be my wife.” Berry Pleydell smiled. Then he took Susan’s hand. “My dear,” he said, “this is most fortunate. You can do me a little service. Listen. When I was last at Ruth—about four years ago, I sent a good-looking pair of bed-socks to the Castle dairy. Well, I had to go before the wash came back, and in spite of repeated applications to His Grace the Duke of Culloden my property has never been restored. Now, when you get there, go through his rotten things, and——” “_The Duke of Culloden?_” cried Susan. “But . . .” The sentence died there, and she looked from one to the other with fright in her eyes. Then she addressed her swain. “Are _you_,” she breathed, “are _you_ the Duke of Culloden?” “Yes, dear,” said Nicholas John. To style the sensation ‘profound’ conveys nothing at all.