A voice floated downwards from above. Some one came running down the stairs. It was her Grace of Datchet.
"Mabel!"
She actually rushed into the Duke's extended arms. And he kissed her, and she kissed him--before the servants.
"So you're not quite dead?" she cried.
"I am almost," he said.
She drew herself a little away from him.
"Hereward, were you seriously hurt?"
"Do you suppose that I could have been otherwise than seriously hurt?"
"My darling! Was it a Pickford's van?"
The Duke stared: