"Well," she broke in, speaking rapidly, "you are to tell the Duke that he must not do such a thing again; I will not receive farewell messages through the public press—indeed, you may tell him that nothing will induce me to read the paper again." "I say," protested Tuppy, "don’t say it! Next week’s letter ain’t half bad——" "Next week!" Alicia’s blood boiled. "Do you mean to tell me that he dares to repeat——" "He’s written twenty already," said the informer, "some of ’em good, some of ’em so, so. There’s a very fine one called ’The Profits of Penitence’ that’ll appear in the Christmas number. That’s a tremendously touchin’ thing—about Christmas bells an’ children dyin’ in the snow." Alicia had no words by now. She gained self-possession with an effort. "You—must—tell—the—Duke," she began. "Why not tell him yourself," suggested Tuppy. Somebody at the far end of the room had just finished singing, and people who had found seats were smiling sweetly at people who were standing. And people who were standing were smiling back and saying "selfish pig" under their breaths, when Sir Harry mounted a chair, and instantly the hum of talk died down. "My friends," said Sir Harry, "I feel that we cannot separate to-night without my saying a few words concerning the object of this gathering (cheers). We have met together to do honour to our neighbour, Lord Tupping (loud cheers). "Heaven and earth!" fretted Tuppy, "why doesn’t he leave me alone?" "Lord Tupping," Sir Harry went on, "has shown us, by example, the attitude of the typical English peer. Dignified, yet gracious; reserved, yet approachable; he combines generosity with restraint and is a striking contrast to the pseudo-nobleman, whose unedifying behaviour has, I think I am right in saying, scandalized our beautiful suburb." "I say! I say!" said Tuppy indignantly, but nobody heard him. "As oil to water," said Sir Harry, "as the genuine is to fictitious, so is the old nobility to the upstart—I should say, so is the English nobility to the—er—foreign: they do not mix; they have nothing in common; their ideals are separated by an immeasurable gulf." "We cannot but be sensible," the knight proceeded, when there was a commotion at the doorway and a tall man pushed his way through. It was the Duke, hatless, pale and a little breathless. "Tuppy!" he called, and to Sir Harry’s amazement the object of his panegyric came half-way to meet him. In the silence that fell upon the assembly every word of the conversation was audible. "Tuppy, did you come over the garden wall to-night?" was his astounding question. "No, old feller." "Sure?" "Sure, dear boy." The Duke stood thinking. "Then you didn’t drop this," he said and held out his hand. It held a silver-mounted cigar case. Sir Harry recognized it with a smothered oath. It was the case he had given to Bill Slewer.