"I'm talking about servants, Cecil," observed the duke.
"And shoot? Why, they're the greatest gunners in the world. By Jove, I read somewhere the other day that they had hit what they shot at three million times out of—or, let me see, was it the Prussians who fired three million rounds and—"
"Oh, let's change the subject," said the duke in disgust. "What's become of that Shaw fellow?" Penelope started and flushed, much to her chagrin. At the sound of Shaw's name Lady Bazelhurst, who was passing with the count, stopped so abruptly that her companion took half a dozen paces without her.
"Shaw? By Jove, do you know, I'd completely forgotten that fellow," exclaimed Cecil.
"I thought you were going to shoot him, or shoot at him, or something like that. Can't you get him in range?"
"Oh, I wasn't really in earnest about that, Barminster. You know we couldn't shoot at a fellow for such a thing—"
"Nonsense, Cecil," said his wife. "You shoot poachers in England."
"But this fellow isn't a poacher. He's a—a gentleman, I daresay—in some respects—not all, of course, my dear, but—"
"Gentleman? Ridiculous!" scoffed his wife.
"I—yes, quite right—a ridiculous gentleman, of course. Ha, ha! Isn't he, Barminster? But with all that, you know, I couldn't have Tompkins shoot him. He asked me the other day if he should take a shot at Shaw's legs, and I told him not to do anything so absurd." Penelope's heart swelled with relief, and for the first time that evening she looked upon her brother with something like sisterly regard.