“But you haven’t a crest, have you?” she adds, with as much solemnity as if she were asking “Have you hopes of salvation?” “A crest?--of course I have!” he replies jauntily, not a bit offended at her doubt on the subject. “A sweet little crest. It has a little turretted house on the top, with what they call in heraldry a martinet perched on it. I don’t understand much about birds, but in plain English, I expect it’s a swallow, or maybe a tom-tit. And the motto is a very nice one, and very applicable too--_Fortes fortuna juvat_,” and he smiles complacently. Trixy has a horrible suspicion that he also winks. “I don’t understand Latin,” she says scornfully. “You see, they don’t teach it at fashionable schools. It is a language that does very well for prescriptions and things, and is only fit for doctors.” “I know a little Latin, and my motto in English is ‘Fortune favours the brave!’” he explains pleasantly, with another affable smile and meaning look, which are quite lost on Trixy, whose worst enemies cannot accuse her of any undue ’cuteness, as the Yankees have it. She has no more idea that the man is alluding to himself and herself than if he was speaking Greek, which is another of the languages she knows nothing of. The only thing that strikes her is how funny he would look if his bravery was called into account, and how slowly his short stout legs would carry him, if he ever wanted to run away from an enemy. “You say the crest has a castle with a bird on it. That will do I fancy on the furniture. People don’t trouble much about the subject, so long as there _is_ a crest to make the things look more aristocratic. Can’t the Beranger motto be added to yours? It is French, and everybody knows French.” “May I ask what it is?” he asks wondering how he can have overlooked it in his diligent researches into “Lodge” and “Burke “ and “De Brett,” works that, bound in velvet and gold, have prominent positions in his library. “It is ‘_Noblesse oblige_,’ ‘Nobility forces,’ you know.” Mr. Stubbs reddens as he thinks the addition she suggests will very likely provoke a smile from ill-natured people, who _might_ fancy that the Hon. Trixy Beranger’s finances forced her to become the Hon. Mrs. Stubbs. “I don’t see how it can be done,” he remarks. “It would be going against the rules of heraldry I am afraid.” “What does _that_ matter?” she cries captiously. “It would be very hard if I really set my heart on anything, to be done out of it just because some stupid sign-painter’s ideas did not coincide with mine.” “Heraldry is not exactly sign-painting, it is a science,” he ventures to remonstrate, anxious to smooth down her ruffled feathers.