"She's not married then?"
"A widow, madame."
"And wasn't her husband Baron Tristram?"
"Her husband would not have been Lord—excuse me, madame, we say Lord—Tristram of Blent. Her son will succeed to the title, of course. The family reside at Blent Hall, only a few hundred yards from Merrion Lodge, a picturesque mansion in the valley. The Lodge, you perceive, stands high."
"I don't understand the family arrangements," remarked Madame Zabriska, "but I daresay I shall learn it all if I go."
"If you had a 'Peerage,' madame——" he suggested, being himself rather vague about the mysteries of a barony by writ.
"I'll get one from the waiter presently. Good-morning, Mr Sloyd."
Sloyd was making his bow when the door opened and a man came in. He was tall, erect, and good-looking. Both air and manner were youthful, although perhaps with a trace of artifice; he would pass for thirty-five on a casual glance, but not after a longer one.
"My uncle, Major Duplay," said the little woman. "This is Mr Sloyd, who's come about the house, uncle."