"Lucky?" echoed Lady Ormstork, rather non-plussed.
"Yes," Ulrica assured her. "We've settled it between ourselves. I like him. He's my sort."
From the duke came a deep, rumbling "Oom!" as a grim commentary on the reshuffle of the position.
"But I'm not Lord Quorn," Peckover urged vehemently, beginning to be seriously alarmed.
"You are!" maintained Gage.
"One of you must be," said the duke, as though merely anxious not to make a mistake in the selection of his victim.
"Not me!" To such a state of poverty was Peckover's vocabulary reduced.
"Oh, Percival!" Ulrica exclaimed reproachfully. "Don't deny it."
"He can't," declared Gage, under the influence of the baleful Salolja eyes and moustaches which dominated the scene.
"May I ask," said Lady Ormstork with dignified severity, "how you came to call yourself Lord Quorn?"