eath of the late lord, a
dozen years or so ago, the younger line became extinct, and the title
reverted."

"I see," said my lady. She knitted her eyebrows, computing. After an
instant, "General Blanchemain," she resumed, "as the present lord was
called for the best part of his life, is a bachelor. You will be one of
his nephews?" She raised her eyes inquiringly.

"The son of his brother Philip," said the young man.

Lady Blanchemain sat up straight again.

"But then," she cried, forgetting to conceal her perturbation, "then
you're the heir. Philip Blanchemain had but one son, and was the
General's immediate junior. You're John Blanchemain--John Francis Joseph
Mary. You're the heir."

The young man smiled--at her eagerness, perhaps.

"The heir-presumptive--I suppose I am," he said.

Lady Blanchemain leaned back and gently tittered.

"See how I know my Peerage!" she exclaimed. Then, looking grave, "You're
heir to an uncommonly good old title," she informed him.

"I hope it may be many a long day before I'm anything else," said he.

"Your uncle is an old man," she suggestively threw out.

"Oh, not so very old," he submitted. "Only seventy, or thereabouts, and
younger in many respects than I am. I hope he'll live for ever."

"Hum!" said she, and appeared to fall a-musing. Absently, as it seemed,
and slowly, she was pulling off her gloves.

"Feuds in families," she said, in a minute, "are bad things. Why don't
you make it up?"

The young man waved his hand, a pantomimic _non-possumus_.

"There's no one left to make it up with--the others are all dead."

"Oh?" she wondered, her eyebrows elevated, whilst automatically her
fingers continued to operate upon her gloves. "I thought the last lord
left a widow. I seem to have heard of a _Lady_ Blanchemain somewhere."

The young man gave still another of his little laughs.

"Linda Lady Blanchemain?" he said. "Yes, one hears a lot of her. A
highly original character, by all accounts. One hears of her
everywhere."

Linda Lady Blanchemain's lip began to quiver; but she got it under
control.

"Well?" she questioned--eyes fixing his, and brimming with a kind of
humorous defiance, as if to say, "Think me an impertinent old meddler
if you will, and do your worst,"--"Why don't you make it up with _her_?"

But he didn't seem to mind the meddling in the least. He stood at ease,
and plausibly put his case.

"Why don't I? Or why doesn't my uncle? My uncle is a temperam