he had no right to do. Remembering, too, that Mrs. Dennant's French was
orthodox, he felt sure she would never understand the young foreigner's
subtle innuendoes. He closed the envelope and went to bed, haunted still
by Ferrand's parting look.

It was with no small feeling of embarrassment, however, that, having
sent the letter to its destination by an early footman, he made his
appearance at the breakfast-table. Behind the Austrian coffee-urn,
filled with French coffee, Mrs. Dennant, who had placed four eggs in a
German egg-boiler, said "Good-morning," with a kindly smile.

"Dick, an egg?" she asked him, holding up a fifth.

"No, thank you," replied Shelton, greeting the table and fitting down.

He was a little late; the buzz of conversation rose hilariously around.

"My dear," continued Mr. Dennant, who was talking to his youngest
daughter, "you'll have no chance whatever--not the least little bit of
chance."

"Father, what nonsense! You know we shall beat your heads off!"

"Before it 's too late, then, I will eat a muffin. Shelton, pass the
muffins!" But in making this request, Mr. Dennant avoided looking in his
face.

Antonia, too, seemed to keep her eyes away from him. She was talking
to a Connoisseur on Art of supernatural appearances, and seemed in
the highest spirits. Shelton rose, and, going to the sideboard, helped
himself to grouse.

"Who was the young man I saw yesterday on the lawn?" he heard the
Connoisseur remark. "Struck me as having an--er--quite intelligent
physiog."

His own intelligent physiog, raised at a slight slant so that he might
look the better through his nose-nippers, was the very pattern of
approval. "It's curious how one's always meeting with intelligence;"
it seemed to say. Mrs. Dennant paused in the act of adding cream, and
Shelton scrutinised her face; it was hare-like, and superior as ever.
Thank goodness she had smelt no rat! He felt strangely disappointed.

"You mean Monsieur Ferrand, teachin' Toddles French? Dobson, the
Professor's cup."

"I hope I shall see him again," cooed the Connoisseur; "he was quite
interesting on the subject of young German working men. It seems they
tramp from place to place to learn their trades. What nationality was
he, may I ask?"

Mr. Dennant, of whom he asked this question, lifted his brows, and said,

"Ask Shelton."

"Half Dutch, half French."

"Very interesting breed; I hope I shall see him again."

"Well, you won't," said The