"You look rather like a baron," she said gleefully. "I wish I could borrow some armor and take you in character as the gentleman who built this castle. By the way, his name was Fitz-something-or-other. Was he a relation?" "Fitz Osborne," said Medenham. "Ah, yes. Fitzroy means King's son, doesn't it?" "I--er--believe so." "Well, I can imagine you scowling out of a vizor. It would suit you admirably." "But I might not scowl." "Oh, yes, you would. Remember this morning. Just force yourself to think for a moment that I am Monsieur----" She stopped abruptly. "A little more to the left, please--and turn your face to the sun. There, that is capital." "Why should Fitzroy scowl at the recollection of Count Edouard?" demanded Mrs. Devar, her eyes devouring the telltale blush that suffused the girl's face and neck. "Only because the Count wished to supplant him as our chauffeur," came the ready answer. "I thought Monsieur Marigny's offer a very courteous one." "Undoubtedly. But as I had to decide the matter I preferred to travel in a car that was at my own disposal." Mrs. Devar dared not go farther. She relapsed into a sulky silence. She said not a word when Cynthia occupied the front seat for the climb through Chepstow's High Street, and when the girl turned to call her attention to the view from the crest of the famous Wyndcliff she was nodding asleep! Cynthia told Medenham, and there was a touch of regret in her voice. "Poor dear," she said in an undertone, "the Castle was too much for her, and the fresh air has made her drowsy." He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and instantly made up his mind to broach a project that he had thought out carefully since his quarrel with the Frenchman. "You mean to stay in Hereford during the whole of to-morrow, Miss Vanrenen?" he asked. "Yes. Somehow, I don't see myself scampering across the map on the British Sabbath. Besides, I am all behindhand with my letters, and my father will be telegraphing something emphatic if I don't go beyond 'Much love' on a picture postcard." "Symon's Yat is exceptionally beautiful, and there is a capital little hotel there. The Wye runs past the front door, the boating is superb, and there will be a brilliant moon after dinner." "And the answer is?" "That we could run into Hereford before breakfast, leaving you plenty of time to attend the morning service at the cathedral." Cynthia did not look at him or she would have seen that he was rather baronial in aspect just then. Sad to relate, they were speeding down the Wyndcliff gorge without giving it the undisturbed notice it merited. "I have a kind of notion that Mrs. Devar wouldn't catch on to the boating proposition," she said thoughtfully. "Perhaps not, but the river takes a wide bend there, and she could see us from the hotel veranda all the time." "Guess it can't be fixed up, anyhow," she sighed.