The valet’s eyes lifted, and for a moment stared in surprise at the back of his master’s powdered head. He replied after a moment’s reflection: “I regret, sir, I am unable to answer with any degree of certainty. I should suppose him to be somewhere in the region of one—or two-and-thirty.”
“My memory is very imperfect,” sighed the Beau, “but I think he was always used to be dark, was he not?”
“Yes, sir.” The valet gave another of his deprecating coughs. “It is generally said amongst the country people, sir, that my lord gave his own colouring to his descendants.”
“Yes,” agreed the Beau. “Yes, I have heard that. In fact, I think I can call only one exception to mind.” He turned, and came away from the window to stand in front of the fire. “I cannot but feel that it would be interesting to know whether mademoiselle’s groom conformed to the rule—or not.”
“The riding-officer, sir,” said Gregg, in an expressionless voice, “spoke of a fair young man.”
“Ah!” said the Beau gently. “A fair young man! Well, that is very odd, to be sure.”
“Yes, sir. A trifle unusual, I believe.”
The Beau’s gaze dwelled thoughtfully upon a portrait hanging on the opposite wall. “I think, Gregg, that we sometimes purchase our brandy from Joseph Nye?”
“We have very often done so, sir.”
“We will purchase some more,” said the Beau, polishing his eyeglass on his sleeve. “Attend to it, Gregg.”