“Holy Moses! Fancy that my grandfather!” she murmured, staring into the face, “and him a duke, no less!”
“Yes; he had the royal blood of France in his veins. So”—looking at her steadily—“have you.”
“Is it me?” she repeated, opening her eyes. Then she burst out laughing. “Well, to think of that now! He looks terribly stiff and stand-off, does my grandfather, and as if he did not want to know the likes of me.”
“This is the little boudoir,” announced Lord Mulgrave, suddenly opening a door into a small, bright room, where a great wood fire blazed up the chimney. Before it was drawn a sofa, on which a recumbent figure lay extended at full length, displaying a generous view of red silk stockings and buckled shoes, the head buried among soft silk cushions; and when the head turned, it displayed the face of Tito—Tito with a cigarette between her lips, and a yellow paper-bound book in her hand.
“Hallo!”—suddenly sitting up. “Good morning, pater.” To Joseline: “So you are down?”
“Yes, long ago,” she replied. “I’m sorry you are sick. What ails you?”
“I sick? Certainly not! Pray why on earth should you think so?”
“Because you are lying stretched.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I’m taking it easy. The Max girls and the men are playing a foursome, and I’m off duty”; and she snuggled down again, and replaced her cigarette.