"But it's not much of a title," its owner palliated. "It's just a little old one. Nothing gaudy about it, like these new brewers'. It's considered quite respectable, really, at home, and nobody objects. It—it runs in the family, like red hair or—er—insanity."
"Insanity!" Faith gasped. "Good heavens, is there that? Oh, poor Jean! That explains—"
"No, no!" Chetwood protested desperately. "I didn't mean that. Quite the contrary. Not a trace. Why, dash it all, there isn't even genius!"
Whereat, with a wild shriek, Faith collapsed weakly in her chair and laughed until she wept. "Oh, oh, oh!" she gasped feebly, wiping her eyes, "this is lovely—I mean it's awful. Mr. Chetwood—I mean Sir Eustace—"
"'Bill!'" the object of her mirth amended. "Poor Bill. Poor old Bill! Dear, kind, pretty lady, have a heart!"
"A heart! If it gets any more shocks like this—But what am I to tell Jean? Here's a poor country girl and a noble knight—"
"Don't rub it in. You see Sir Eustace was alive when I came over here. When I heard of his death I said nothing to anybody, because there are a lot of silly asses who seem to think a title makes some difference in a man. And then I was afraid some beastly newspaper would print some rot about my working as a ranch hand."
"Well, I don't know what's to be done about it," Faith admitted; "but I do know that now isn't the time for you to see Jean. Really, I think the best thing you can do is to go away for a week or two."