“Oh, I thought you meant the--but I don't know. What difference does that make? Big or little, he has to stay off my grounds.” Was it a look of pride that his tall young wife bestowed upon him as he drew himself proudly erect or was it akin to pity? At any rate, her gay young American head was inches above his own when she arose and suggested that they go inside and prepare for the housing of the guests who were to come over from the evening train. “The drag has gone over to the station, Cecil, and it should be here by seven o'clock.” “Confound his impudence, I 'll show him,” grumbled his lordship as he followed her, stiff-legged, toward the door. “What's up, Cecil, with your legs?” called his sister. “Are you getting old?” This suggestion always irritated him. “Old? Silly question. You know how old I am. No; it's that beastly American horse. Evelyn, I told you they have no decent horses in this beastly country. They jiggle the life out of one--” but he was obliged to unbend himself perceptibly in order to keep pace with her as she hurried through the door. The Honourable Penelope allowed her indolent gaze to follow them. A perplexed pucker finally developed on her fair brow and her thought was almost expressed aloud: “By Jove, I wonder if she really loves him.” Penelope was very pretty and very bright. She was visiting America for the first time and she was learning rapidly. “Cecil 's a good sort, you know, even--” but she was loyal enough to send her thoughts into other channels. Nightfall brought half a dozen guests to Bazelhurst Villa. They were fashionable to the point where ennui is the chief characteristic, and they came only for bridge and sleep. There was a duke among them and also a French count, besides the bored New Yorkers; they wanted brandy and soda as soon as they got into the house, and they went to bed early because it was so much easier to sleep lying down than sitting up. All were up by noon the next day, more bored than ever, fondly praying that nothing might happen before bedtime. The duke was making desultory love to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. De Peyton was leading him aimlessly toward the shadier and more secluded nooks in the park surrounding the Villa. Penelope, fresh and full of the purpose of life, was off alone for a long stroll. By this means she avoided the attentions of the duke, who wanted to marry her; those of the count who also said he wanted to marry her but could n't because his wife would not consent; those of one New Yorker, who liked her because she was English; and the pallid chatter of the women who bored her with their conjugal cynicisms. “What the deuce is this coming down the road?” queried the duke, returning from the secluded nook at luncheon time. “Some one has been hurt,” exclaimed his companion. Others were looking down the leafy road from the gallery.