"Is that unusual experience for you?" she questioned drily. She marvelled to find herself engaged in a conversation with him. "Unusual? Rather! I am as brave as a lion," he said frankly. "Hank says I am about three ounces short of a hero." He met her scornful gaze unwillingly. "And a gallant also, I hear!" she retorted with a curl of her lip. He made no reply to this charge, and she misread his silence. "You do not deny _that_, M’sieur le Duc," she went on, "and why should you? You must be aware that the reputation of as great a man as yourself is more or less public property. The greatness that excuses his eccentricities and turns his impertinences into amusing foibles may perhaps leniently gloss over his sordid _affaires_, and give them the value of romance." All the time she spoke the lines between his eyes were deepening into a frown, but he made no attempt at replying until she had finished. "May I respectfully demand which of my _affaires_ you are referring to at the moment?" he asked. "Are they so many," she flamed. "Hundreds," he said sadly, "was it the _affaire_ with the Princess de Gallisitru, or the _affaire_ of the premiere denseuse, or the _affaire_ of—who else does one have _affaires_ with?" "You cannot laugh this away," she said, and then before she could stop herself she demanded with an emphasis that was almost brutal— "What have you done with Mrs. Slewer?" If she expected her question to create a sensation, she must have been satisfied, for at the name he started back so that he almost lost his balance. Then he recovered himself and for a moment only was silent. "Mrs. Slewer," he repeated softly, "what have I done with Mrs. Slewer—Mrs. Bill Slewer, of course?" he asked. She did not speak. "Of Four Ways, Texas?" Still she made no response. "A big bent chap with white eyes"—his voice had recovered its flippancy—"and hands that hang like a ’rang-a-tang?" She recognized the description. "So I ran away—do you mind if I consult a friend? You’ll admit that this is a crisis in my affairs?" She affected not to hear him and strolled to the other side of the garden. "Hank!" She heard his voice and another responding from the house. "Hank," said the muffled voice of the duke. "I ran away with Mrs. Slewer—Big Bill’s wife." "Eh?" "I ran away with Mrs. Bill, and Bill is naturally annoyed, so Bill is looking me up—in fact Bill——" She could not catch the rest; she thought she heard Hank make a reference to "hell," but she hoped she was mistaken. By and by the Duke’s head appeared above the wall. "I suppose," he said, "now that you know the worst, you will tell me this—when is Mr. Slewer going to call?" She spoke over her shoulder, a convenient chrysanthemum with a pathetic droop claiming her attention. "I know nothing of Mr. Slewer’s plans," said she distantly. It was such a long time before he spoke again that she thought he must have gone away, and she ventured a swift glance at the wall.