nd he must have had a very persuasive way with the waiter.
There was creme d'orge, in a big cup; there were sweetbreads, and there
was lemon meringue. Nothing ever tasted better since my "birthday
feasts" as a child, when I was allowed to order my own dinner.

My room being on the first floor, though separated by a labyrinth of
quaint passages from Lady Turnour's, there was danger in a corridor
conversation with Mr. Dane at an hour when people might be coming
upstairs after dinner; but he was in such a hurry to escape from me that
I had no time to explain; and I really had not the heart to make myself
hideous, by way of disguise, as I'd planned before his knock at the
door. As an alternative I put on a hat, pinning quite a thick veil over
my face, and when the expected tap came again, I was prepared for it.

"Are you going out?" my brother asked, looking surprised, when I flitted
into the dim corridor, with Lady Turnour's blue bag dutifully slipped on
my arm.

"No," I answered. "I'm _hiding_. I know that sounds mysterious, or
melodramatic, or something silly, but it's only disagreeable. And it's
what I want to ask your advice about." Then, shamefacedly when it came
to the point, I unfolded the tale of Monsieur Charretier.

"By Jove, and he's in this house!" exclaimed the chauffeur, genuinely
interested, and not a bit sulky. "You haven't an idea whether he's been
actually tracking you?"

"If he has, he must have employed detectives, and clever ones, too," I
said, defending my own strategy.

"Is he the sort of man who would do such a thing--put detectives on a
girl who's run away from home to get rid of his attentions?"

"I don't know. I only know he has no idea of being a gentleman. What can
you expect of Corn Plasters?"

"Don't throw his corn plasters in his face. He might be a good fellow in
spite of them."

"Well, he isn't--or with them, either. He may be acting with my cousin's
husband, who values him immensely, and wants him in the family."

"Is he very rich?"

"Disgustingly," said I, as I had said to Lady Kilmarny.

"Yet you bolted from a good home, where you had every comfort, rather
than be pestered to marry him?"

"Oh, what do you call a 'good home,' and 'every comfort'? I had enough
to eat and drink, a sunny room, decent clothes, and wasn't allowed to
work except for Cousin Catherine. But that isn't my idea of goodness and
comfort."

"Nor mine either."

"Yet you seem surprised at me."

"I w