“By no means. You saw one brother in Paris, but I do not think you saw the other. Yet, very likely you did; they are, I am told, wonderfully alike. They were at the Ecole Militaire together. The relationship is unmistakable except to those who will not see.” The old gossip laughed aloud, enjoying the other’s mystification. “What singularity!” exclaimed Nadège. “Pray go on. I am no longer bored. I can even regard this portrait without a yawn. Who is this Captain Grantham? And why should I not know him here or see him in Paris? You tell me he is famous and the companion of princes.” “He has a name of his own. It is descriptive and picturesque, besides being symbolic.” “Ah? Pray pronounce it.” “Brugnon.” “What then? Where is the symbolism?” “Well, then, this Monsieur Brugnon is like his brothers Reginald, Garrick, and Geoffrey in all respects save one; unfortunately, the most important one of all.” “What is it? Why have I been kept in ignorance of this, since it is evidently a family affair? What is this difference of such vital importance?” “His color.” Mistress Geoffrey sank back into her furry nest, her expression of lively curiosity and irritation instantly effaced by one of bland indifference. “I see. Why does he not remain in Europe? He is a fool to come here.” “So he is,—but he does not know it. He wrote to his father, the Governor, your father-in-law and my cousin, to say that since the abdication of the Emperor and the enforced residence of Prince Eugène in Vienna, he revolts from the service of a _lackey at court_ after the activity of the battlefield, and now desires to _see his own people_ once more and his home—the home of his childhood, the plantation, the other _Court_ hardly less celebrated than—” “Yes, yes, I know,” exclaimed Nadège hastily, “named for the English estate of the Granthams near Twickenham, Middlesex, which contains ‘fourteen hundred acres of land, and gardens, fishponds, hedges, terraces and fountains unsurpassed by anything in the South.’ My memory, you see, is excellent.” “You have been reading the family annals of late?” “Oh, no; it was not necessary! Tell me, cousin, is this _petite histoire_ generally known?” “Yes: the Governor was much censured for sending the boy to France, and his rapid promotion has been a sore on the foot of those who will tread him in the very mire when he comes to see _his own people_, poor devil.” “Why does the Governor permit his return?” “He cannot help it. Brugnon wrote that he would take ship at once.” “Who is his mother?” was the next question. “Ah, who knows?” And Miss Ann peaked up her sharp shoulders under their gay flowered silk covering and wagged her oriental headgear until the filigree silver ornaments in the lobes of her large ears jingled audibly.