ughter's hand. Now the merits of Simon Dubosc
were of the kind which are amply rewarded with the favour of an
assumed politeness and a cordial handshake.

All this was so evident and the old nobleman's mind, with its pride,
its prejudice and its stiff-necked obstinacy, stood so plainly
revealed that Simon, who was unwilling to suffer the humiliation of a
refusal, replied in a rather impertinent and bantering tone:

"Needless to say, Lord Bakefield, I make no pretension to becoming
your son-in-law just like that, all in a moment and without having
done something to deserve so immense a privilege. My request refers
first of all to the conditions which Simon Dubosc, the yeoman's
descendant, would have to fulfil to obtain the hand of a Bakefield. I
presume that, as the Bakefields have an ancestor who came over with
William the Conqueror, Simon Dubosc, to rehabilitate himself in their
eyes, would have to conquer something--such as a kingdom--or,
following the Bastard's example, to make a triumphant descent upon
England? Is that the way of it?"

"More or less, young man," replied the old peer, slightly disconcerted
by this attack.

"Perhaps too," continued Simon, "he ought to perform a few superhuman
actions, a few feats of prowess of world-wide importance, affecting
the happiness of mankind? William the Conqueror first, Hercules or Don
Quixote next? . . . Then, perhaps, one might come to terms?"

"One might, young man."

"And that would be all?"

"Not quite!"

And Lord Bakefield, who had recovered his self-possession, continued,
in a genial fashion:

"I cannot undertake that Isabel would remain free for very long. You
would have to succeed within a given space of time. Do you consider,
M. Dubosc, that I shall be too exacting if I fix this period at two
months?"

"You are much too generous, Lord Bakefield," cried Simon. "Three weeks
will be ample. Think of it: three weeks to prove myself the equal of
William the Conqueror and the rival of Don Quixote! It is longer than
I need! I thank you from the bottom of my heart! For the present, Lord
Bakefield, good-bye!"

And, turning on his heels, fairly well-satisfied with an interview
which, after all, released him from any obligation to the old
nobleman, Simon Dubosc returned to the club-house. Isabel's name had
hardly been mentioned.

"Well," asked Rolleston, "have you put forward your suit?"

"More or less."

"And what was the reply?"

"Couldn't be better, Ed