The young private secretary put down his unpeeled nut. He was afraid, but was he not a gentleman? Mr. Dunn was a cadet of a noble but impoverished house, and it was not in vain that he had spent nine years at Eton and Oxford to no other end than to know the difference between a cad and a gentleman. “Look here, sir,” said Mr. Dunn, “that’s a bit much. I mean, it’s going too far. I’ll stand a good deal and all that, but I will not stand for a lady being insulted before my face. You will receive my resignation in the morning, Lord Vest. In the meanwhile, I’m off.” Mr. Dunn was undeniably furious. The Napoleon of the Press was not, however, without a sense of humour: so, at least, his papers would now and then confess rather shyly, hinting that the manly laughter of Lord Vest must come as a solace to God for the press of His business elsewhere that compelled Him to give Lord Vest the vice-royalty of this earth. He laughed now. He laughed alone. “Gently, Mr. Dunn, gently!” he laughed, and his voice was of a courteous balance surprising in one of his rugged appearance: nor had he any trace of that accent which by ordinary adorns the speech of our Australian cousins. “That you will be leaving my employment more or less at once,” he continued playfully, “is, I am afraid, self-evident. And that you will find any other employment in England in the course of, I hope, a long life, is exceedingly improbable, for I shall make it my business, Mr. Dunn, to have you hounded out of the country; and I have, I need scarcely remind you, more experience of hounding people out of countries than perhaps any other man in England. But I don’t think, Mr. Dunn, that I can allow you to leave this house for another half-an-hour or so. For I have something to say to you.” And Lord Vest smiled at Mr. Dunn. He was a much bigger man than Mr. Dunn, and he was between Mr. Dunn and the door. It was at that moment that my lady raised her voice. She wore always a sad, brave dignity, always she was a quiet lady; but in her voice now, as her eyes rested very calmly on the sneering face of her husband, the very landscape of England might have been quivering. She did not conceal from his lordship that the reason for this quivering was a profound distaste for his person, manners and conversation. “I did not think,” said she, “that any man could say so base a thing on such flimsy provocation. The fact that in spite of your childish prejudice against dancing (which I sincerely hope is not shared by all the natives of Australia) Mr. Dunn has been kind enough to dance with me----” “You call that dancing?” smiled my lord. “Oh, do you! I may seem very uncivilised, Pamela, but to me it seemed more like making love. Am I right, Mr. Dunn?”