"The master bids me thank you," he said in French, usual in Bharbazonian households because, as I afterward learned, it was the court language, "for the expression of good will which your presence implies; he is sorry that the custom of denying himself to visitors, which has been his for years, compels him to refrain from entertaining you. To Monsieur le Physician, he desires me to say that his son has so far recovered as to make any further calls unnecessary."
The insult took our breath away and we could manage no words to reply.
"I wish you a very good afternoon," said the doorman, gravely. Then he gently but firmly closed the door in our faces.
What little hold Nick retained upon his temper was lost when, in remounting, owing to the restiveness of his horse, he twice missed his stirrup. The animal was one of those high-spirited fellows that show much white around the eye and cannot stand the approach of a rider. Nick made matters worse by belabouring him both with his riding whip and the toe of his boot, so that I had to pull up on the road and wait for him.
I scarcely knew what to make of our unceremonious reception, and could attribute the Duke's action to one of two things. Either as an offspring of Bharbazonia he was mediæval and unused to the polite usages of the present day; or he had something to conceal.
"My respect for the General increases," I said as we rode off together.
"Why?" growled Nick.
"The General knew his man better than we did."
"What makes you say that?"
"He strongly advised me not to visit Dhalmatia, and said the Red Fox would insult us."