"We must know how we stand," said the duke, who had assumed the attitude of a stunted bravo.
"I tell you," Gage maintained, "I am no more Lord Quorn than you are."
There was a short silence. Then Lady Ormstork demanded pointedly, "Then who, may I ask, is Lord Quorn?"
Gage indicated the unwilling Peckover. "This is Lord Quorn. I am plain Peter Gage."
Quorn, the real Quorn, laughed scornfully, and seemed to see light.
Miss Buffkin clapped her hands. "You Lord Quorn? How lovely!" she exclaimed, beaming at Peckover.
"Aha! So you are Lord Quorn?" cried the duke transferring to that person his highly undesirable attention.
"No, I'll be hanged if I am," protested the abnegating Peckover.
"You'll be shot if you are," observed Gage half aloud, with a glance at the highly-stoked little Spaniard, who stood pulling his quill-like moustaches, and whose unswerving glance confirmed the forecast.
Ulrica had jumped up. "There, we've settled it already, dear Lady Ormstork," she cried. "Isn't it lucky!"