“Yes, sir,” Lambart returned, “I took the liberty of putting a bit on him; I won, too.” “Good,” said his employer, “I’m glad. He ought to have a good season in France. I like France for two things--racing and what they call the _heure de l’aperitif_. When I go to Rome I do as the Romans do, and I have the pleasantest recollections of my afternoons in France.” He noticed that Lambart, bringing over to him a box of cigars, turned his head as though to listen. “I believe, sir,” said the butler, “that the car is coming up the drive.” He hurried to the open French window and looked out. “Yes, sir,” he cried, “it is one of our cars and Mrs. Harrington is in it.” Michael Harrington rose hastily to his feet. “Great Scott, my wife! The boat must have docked early.” He pointed to the whiskey and champagne. “Get rid of these; and not a word, Lambart, not a word.” “Certainly not, sir,” Lambart answered; “I couldn’t make a mistake of that sort after being with the Marquis of St. Mervyn for seven years.” He took up the tray quickly and carried it off as Nora Rutledge--the girl for whose sake poor Monty had passed hours of alternate misery and hope--came in to tell her host the news. “Alice is here,” she cried, “and Monty Vaughan with her.” Nora was a pretty, clever girl of two and twenty with the up-to-date habit of slangy smartness fully developed and the customary lack of reticence over her love-affairs or those of anyone else in whom she was interested. But for all her pert sayings few girls were more generally liked than she, for the reason that she was genuine and wholesome. “Fine,” Michael said heartily. “Where are they? How is she? Was it a good voyage?” A moment later his wife had rushed into his arms. “You dear old thing,” she exclaimed affectionately. “By George! I’m glad to see you,” he said, “you’ve been away for ages.” “You seem to have survived it well enough,” she laughed. “Tell me everything you’ve done,” he insisted. While she tried to satisfy this comprehensive order, Monty was assuring Nora how delighted he was to see her. “It’s bully to find you here,” he said, shaking her hand. “I nearly hugged you.” “Well, why didn’t you?” she retorted. “I’ve half a mind to,” he said, stretching out his arms; but she drew back. “No. Not now. It’s cold. Hugs must be spontaneous.” “Where’s Ethel?” Mrs. Harrington called to her. “Upstairs, changing. You see we didn’t think you could get in so early and you weren’t expected for another half-hour. She ought to be down in a minute or so.” “Why didn’t you come down and meet us, old man?” Monty asked of his host. “Wife’s orders,” Harrington responded promptly. “It’s such a nuisance to have people meet one at the pier,” Alice explained. “I’m sure Monty was glad you weren’t there to witness his humiliation. He was held up for smuggling and narrowly escaped deportation.”