emen," said he, with some sort of an
accent that did not escape us. "It would give me the greatest pleasure
and you will sup with me in Hanover Square."

CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH MY LORD BALTIMORE APPEARS

His Grace's offer was accepted with a readiness he could scarce have
expected, and we all left the room in the midst of a buzz of comment.
We knew well that the matter was not so haphazard as it appeared, and on
the way to Hanover Square Comyn more than once stepped on my toe, and
I answered the pressure. Our coats and canes were taken by the duke's
lackeys when we arrived. We were shown over the house. Until now--so his
Grace informed us--it had not been changed since the time of the fourth
duke, who, as we doubtless knew, had been an ardent supporter of the
Hanoverian succession. The rooms were high-panelled and furnished in
the German style, as was the fashion when the Square was built. But some
were stripped and littered with scaffolding and plaster, new and costly
marble mantels were replacing the wood, and an Italian of some renown
was decorating the ceilings. His Grace appeared to be at some pains that
the significance of these improvements should not be lost upon us; was
constantly appealing to Mr. Fox's taste on this or that feature. But
those fishy eyes of his were so alert that we had not even opportunity
to wink. It was wholly patent, in brief, that the Duke of Chartersea
meant to be married, and had brought Charles and Comyn hither with a
purpose. For me he would have put himself out not an inch had he not
understood that my support came from those quarters.

He tempered off this exhibition by showing us a collection of pottery
famous in England, that had belonged to the fifth duke, his father.
Every piece of it, by the way, afterwards brought an enormous sum at
auction. Supper was served in a warm little room of oak. The game was
from Derresley Manor, the duke's Nottinghamshire seat, and the wine, so
he told us, was some of fifty bottles of rare Chinon he had inherited.
Melted rubies it was indeed, of the sort which had quickened the blood
of many a royal gathering at Blois and Amboise and Chenonceaux,--the
distilled peasant song of the Loire valley. In it many a careworn clown
had tasted the purer happiness of the lowly. Our restraint gave way
under its influence. His Grace lost for the moment his deformities, and
Mr. Fox made us laugh until our sides ached again. His Lordship
told many a capital