“Yes, but you was an angel,” said Boschetto gravely.
He glanced at his watch, begged to be excused and made his way to a servant with an anxious air. . . .
“Who,” said Culloden, “are the young chevaliers?”
The girl smiled.
“The one in pink,” she said, “is Monsieur Labotte—a man, as you have seen, of singular taste and charm. The other—well, surely you know who that is.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Aren’t you English?”
“I’m a Scotsman.”
“Worse and worse,” laughed the girl. “My good sir, that is the Duke of Culloden.”