“Of stepping below?” he inquired, head on one side, solemn eyes upon the hostess. “Would it be impertinent to inquire what they may want with me?” “I think they want you for a witness, sir.” “For a witness? Am I to testify to the lady's perfection of face and shape, to the heaven that sits in her eyes, to the miracle she calls her ankle? Are these and other things besides of the same kind what I am required to witness? If so, they could not have sent for one more qualified. I am an expert, ma'am.” “Oh, sir, nay!” she laughed. “'Tis a marriage they need you for.” Mr. Caryll opened his queer eyes a little wider. “Soho!” said he. “The parson is explained.” Then he fell thoughtful, his tone lost its note of flippancy. “This gentleman who sends his compliments, does he send his name?” “He does not, sir; but I overheard it.” “Confide in me,” Mr. Caryll invited her. “He is a great gentleman,” she prepared him. “No matter. I love great gentlemen.” “They call him Lord Rotherby.” At that sudden and utterly unexpected mention of his half-brother's name--his unknown half-brother--Mr. Caryll came to his feet with an alacrity which a more shrewd observer would have set down to some cause other than mere respect for a viscount. The hostess was shrewd, but not shrewd enough, and if Mr. Caryll's expression changed for an instant, it resumed its habitual half-scornful calm so swiftly that it would have needed eyes of an exceptional quickness to have read it. “Enough!” he said. “Who could deny his lordship?” “Shall I tell them you are coming?” she inquired, her hand already upon the door. “A moment,” he begged, detaining her. “'Tis a runaway marriage this, eh?” Her full-hearted smile beamed on him again; she was a very woman, with a taste for the romantic, loving love. “What else, sir?” she laughed. “And why, mistress,” he inquired, eying her, his fingers plucking at his nether lip, “do they desire my testimony?” “His lordship's own man will stand witness, for one; but they'll need another,” she explained, her voice reflecting astonishment at his question. “True. But why do they need me?” he pressed her. “Heard you no reason given why they should prefer me to your chamberlain, your ostler or your drawer?” She knit her brows and shrugged impatient shoulders. Here was a deal of pother about a trifling affair. “His lordship saw you as he entered, sir, and inquired of me who you might be.” “His lordship flatters me by this interest. My looks pleased him, let us hope. And you answered him--what?” “That your honor is a gentleman newly crossed from France.” “You are well-informed, mistress,” said Mr. Caryll, a thought tartly, for if his speech was tainted with a French accent it was in so slight a degree as surely to be imperceptible to the vulgar.