“Gordon said that the boy’s father treated him like a king, and that while the boy is here he is going to look out for him.” Over her shoulder the other threw out coldly: “You speak as though he were in a den of thieves. I didn’t know Gordon’s honor was so fine. As for me, _I_ don’t gamble, you know.” Lady Galorey had decided that Lily’s insistent remaining gave her a chance to fill her fountain pen. She was, therefore, carefully squirting in the ink, and she flushed at her friend’s last words. Lady Galorey herself was the best bridge player in London, and cards were her passion. She did not remind the lady in the window that there were other games besides bridge, but kept both her tongue and her temper. After a little silence in which the women followed each her own thoughts, the duchess murmured: “I’ll toddle up-stairs, Edie—let you write. Where did you say we were going to meet the guns for food?” “At the gate by the White Pastures. There’ll be a cart and a motor going, whichever you like, around two.” “Right,” her grace nodded; “I’ll be on time, dearest.” And Lady Galorey with a relieved sigh heard the door close behind the duchess. Wiping her fountain pen delicately with a bit of chamois, she murmured: “Well, Dan Blair _is_ out of Eden, poor dear, if he met her by the gate.” A fortune of a round ten million pounds was a small part of what this young man had come into by direct inheritance from the Copper King of Blairtown, Montana. For once the money figure had not been exaggerated, but Lady Galorey did not know about the rest of Dan’s inheritance. * * * * * The young man whistling in his rooms in the bachelor quarters of Osdene Park House, dressed for dinner without the aid of a valet. When Lord Galorey had asked him “where his manservant was,” Dan had grinned. “Gosh, I wouldn’t have one of those Johnnies hanging around me—never did have! I can put on _my_ stockings all right! There was a chap on the boat I came over in who let his man put on his stockings. Can you beat that?” Blair had laughed again. “I think if anybody tickled my feet that way I would be likely to kick him in the eye.” Dressing in his room he whistled under his breath a song from a newly popular comic opera; and he intoned with his clear young voice a line of the words: “_Should-you-go-to-Mandalay._” Out through his high window, if he had looked, he would have seen the misty sweep of the park under the faint moonrise and fine shadows that the leaves made in the veiled light, but he did not look out. He was dressing for dinner without a valet and giving a great deal of care to his toilet; for the first time he was to dine in the house of a nobleman and in the presence of a duchess; not that it meant a great deal to him—he thought it was “funny.”