“What is it, Berkley?” Sir Robert asked, testily; he abhorred being disturbed at breakfast. “Has anything gone wrong?” “No, Sir Robert--that is, yes, in a way, Sir Robert; there is a--er--gentleman to see you, Sir Robert, in the reception-room.” “A gentleman to see me in the reception-room at eleven o’clock!” Sir Robert exclaimed. “Did he send up a card?” “No, Sir Robert, leastways not that I know of. The chassewer down-stairs”--Berkley was no French scholar--“sent up the name only, by the page.” “Well--confound it!--what is the name?” “Mr. Preston Wynne,” Berkley stated. “Young Wynne! God bless my soul! Why didn’t you say so at first? Show him up immediately, Berkley. Why, you’ve seen him fifty times at Seton Park. Show him up--of course if you don’t mind, my dear,” he concluded, addressing his wife, who nodded consent without discontinuing her reading. In a moment Mr. Preston Wynne was warmly shaking hands with Sir Robert, after which he reverently touched the extended tips of Lady Seton’s fingers, bowed, and accepted a chair facing the one where “Lady Hamilton” was now enjoying the audible slumber of the corpulent. “I hope I am not too early,” he said, beamingly. “You know I wanted to catch you before you left the hotel for your constitutional, Sir Robert. I remember your habits, you see!” “Not a bit too early, my dear boy,” Sir Robert said, with unwonted geniality. “I did not know you were in Paris, though. When did you arrive?” “Oh, a week ago or thereabouts. Grandma Wynne was set on being here for Ethel’s wedding, and so I brought her over. She’s the most indefatigable old lady in Christendom!” he concluded, with a laugh that revealed a double row of strong white teeth as regular as if they had been carved by machinery.