"Sherbrand.... Must be the aviator-fellow we met in Paris. The chap whose hoverer was bein’ tested by the swells of the French S. Aë! Saved your life and snubbed me for askin’ him to dine with us! Well, that’s what I call a cannon off the cush for the Saxham girl!" His dislike of her betrayed itself in his tone. "Must be the same man! supposin’ him short of a father! Hilton of Ours showed me an advertisement in the B.M.D. column of _The Banner_ this afternoon briefly announcin’ my Uncle Sherbrand’s death. Never read _The Banner_—that’s how I missed it. Can’t say I feel much like puttin’ crape on my sleeve in any quantity," went on Franky. "My Uncle Noel has been the Family Skeleton, poor old chap! since that affair in 1900. No doubt his son’s cut up—wouldn’t be decent of him not to! But at any rate it brings him nearer these—" Franky stuck out a beautifully-cut pair of red-striped auxiliaries ending in dazzling patent-leather Number Eights, and craning over Fits, who had jumped upon his knees, regarded them critically, ending after a pause—"By one life out of the three that stand between. Don’t be so gushin’, old girl!" The rebuke was for Fits, who had taken advantage of her master’s attitude to lick him on the chin. Margot crinkled her slender eyebrows and moved restlessly among her big bright, muslin-covered cushions as she asked: "Is this Volapuk or Esperanto? For mercy’s sake don’t be obscure! Why is this Flying Sherbrand nearer your shoes by one life out of three? What has he got to do with your shoes at all?" "Don’t you switch on?" He lifted his sleek brown head and turned his neck in the setting of the gold-encrusted collar badged with the Scottish Thistle, and stared at Margot with the brown eyes that had seemed so beautiful under the awnings of the Nile _dahabeyah_, and were only stupid now. "Have you forgotten? Don’t you twig, best child? Suppose—for the joke of it—there’s War, and I get wiped out tryin’ to keep up the fightin’ traditions of my family and get a bit of gun-metal to hang on a ribbon here." He glanced down at the left breast of the red coat, guiltless of anything in the decoration line. "Then—unless the child"—his tone grew gentle—"our kiddy that’s coming, happens to be a boy—my Cousin Sherbrand steps into my billet. He’s the next heir to the Norwater Viscounty. Look in Burke or Whittaker if you don’t believe me! Get down, old lady, you’re coverin’ me with white hairs!" He bundled Fits off his knees, got up and rang. "A man ought to be here from Armer’s," he told the servant who responded. "Armer and Co., Pall Mall, Military Tailors. Send him up to my room and tell Jobling to help him with all those cases and things. No! don’t send Jobling!—send Dowd!" The said Dowd being Franky’s soldier servant, between whom and the civilian Jobling reigned a profound mutual contempt. "What is Dowd going to do?"