The next morning there was a kind of informal reception at the British Consulate. The Chevalier took Mr Judson there to make final arrangements with the Consul, and Lady Caerleon looked in to have a talk with Mrs Monckton. Paschics appeared with a document which needed signing, and an unfortunate accident led to the invasion of the house by several other and more important guests. The Queen and her son, with General Banics and M. Stefanovics in attendance, were going out for a ride with Lord Caerleon, Philippa, and Usk, but just outside the Consulate the Queen’s horse cast a shoe. It was only natural that her Majesty and her companions should be invited into the house for a few minutes; but it was certainly strange that Baroness von Hilfenstein, Madame Stefanovics, and Fräulein von Staubach should have chosen that particular time for calling upon Mrs Monckton in a body. Possibly, however, they felt the need of some distraction after the shock they had received when their mistress informed them that the exquisite creation in grey and silver, fresh from a Parisian _atelier_, which had arrived that morning, would not be worn on New Year’s day. Curiously enough (Philippa said afterwards that the array of coincidences in connection with this wedding surpassed those associated with the name of Mr Wemmick), Cyril invited Mansfield to take a stroll with him as far as the Consulate just at this time. “What’s this I hear about you from my brother, Mansfield?” he asked, as they started; “that you have refused Forfar’s post?” “I prefer to stay with you, Count. I don’t want to change.” “But you can’t stay with me. Do you know where you are going at this moment? You are going to see me married, which means that we must part.” “But, Count----” gasped Mansfield, in dire dismay. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but doesn’t it strike you that you would be just a little _de trop_ on the honeymoon trip? And really, you know, it would be a perfect farce for me to drag two secretaries about with me now.” “And you mean to keep Paschics, and kick me out?” “My dear Mansfield, don’t look at me as if I had pierced your young heart to its depths. Paschics must stay with me. He has worked under me more than twenty years, and asks nothing better than to go on as he has done. It would be sheer cruelty to send him adrift at his age. But you have your life before you, and I am not going to see you stranded in the desert with me or any one else.” “You are not treating me well,” said Mansfield hoarsely. “I have not deserved to be turned off at a moment’s notice like this. You do it because you know how I--how fond--how much I think of you, and you feel that you can treat me like a dog.”