The Marquis took up his cup, and leaning back in his chair, crossed his legs. “Louis,” he said with some emphasis, but with perfect good-humour, “if you are trying to see how far you can play on my credulity with regard to yourself, I warn you to desist. Neither of us, I imagine, is a fool——” Saint-Ermay interrupted him with a laugh. “I am by no means sure about myself. I sometimes think,” he said, looking at his cousin with an appearance of great candour, “that I am moving in that direction. In which case,” he concluded politely, “we should naturally part company.” The Marquis acknowledged this compliment with an ironic bow. “I think you are mistaken about yourself,” he returned. “You depreciate your capacities unduly. For instance, you really know perfectly well that your present position is—to say the least—insecure.” It was not without misgivings that he thus approached the delicate topic. The Vicomte stretched himself luxuriously among his down and draperies, and clasped both hands at the back of his head. “Well, what of that?” he demanded lazily, looking up at the canopy of the bed. “Your statement, you know, has not the attribute of novelty.” As Saint-Ermay threw up his arm the flood of lace fell away from his right wrist and revealed to Gilbert’s notice the fact that the wrist itself was enveloped in a bandage of considerable extent, whose surface was flecked with two little spots of crimson. “Ah, you concede that!” he said quietly, and added: “What have you done to your arm?” Louis reddened perceptibly, and immediately returned the injured member to its hiding-place beneath the bedclothes. “It is nothing,” he responded hastily, “a mere scratch.” “A scratch?” repeated the Marquis, setting down his cup. “But with what did you inflict one of that length?” His question was followed by a moment’s silence, which it is possible that Saint-Ermay utilised in searching for a plausible explanation. “It . . . the fact is, I did not do it myself,” he admitted finally. “Will you have some more chocolate, Gilbert?” But the Marquis’ curiosity was piqued by the presence in the speaker’s tone of some concealed emotion other than embarrassment. “Thank you, no. It was an accident, then, I hope? You have not been set upon in the streets, or anything of the sort?” Louis shook his head. “It is nothing worth distressing yourself about, I assure you.” “Ah, I see! Your cat, perhaps?” suggested the Marquis drily, glancing at that animal. “Comme tu persistes! Lucidor never scratches! I suppose I may as well out with it,” said Louis, half laughing, half vexed. He raised himself on his elbow. “Though you think me a lie-a-bed, mon cousin, I have been abroad this morning for all that!” His eyes danced as he made this admission. “Louis! You have not been—fighting?” “Si fait!” returned the culprit, nodding cheerfully. “Tierce and carte at six o’clock this morning. The air was delightful; some day I shall take to early rising.”