Over Montague’s shoulder where he sat, there hung an orchid, a most curious creation, an explosion of scarlet flame. “That is the odonto-glossum,” said Mrs. Winnie. “Have you heard of it?”
“Never,” said the man.
“Dear me,” said the other. “Such is fame!”
“Is it supposed to be famous?” he asked.
“Very,” she replied. “There was a lot in the newspapers about it. You see Winton—that’s my husband, you know—paid twenty-five thousand dollars to the man who created it; and that made a lot of foolish talk—people come from all over to look at it. I wanted to have it, because its shape is exactly like the coronet on my crest. Do you notice that?”
“Yes,” said Montague. “It’s curious.”
“I’m very proud of my crest,” continued Mrs. Winnie. “Of course there are vulgar rich people who have them made to order, and make them ridiculous; but ours is a real one. It’s my own—not my husband’s; the Duvals are an old French family, but they’re not noble. I was a Morris, you know, and our line runs back to the old French ducal house of Montmorenci. And last summer, when we were motoring, I hunted up one of their chateaux; and see! I brought over this.”
Mrs. Winnie pointed to a suit of armour, placed in a passage leading to the billiard-room. “I have had the lights fixed,” she added. And she pressed a button, and all illumination vanished, save for a faint red glow just above the man in armour.
“Doesn’t he look real?” said she. (He had his visor down, and a battle-axe in his mailed hands.) “I like to imagine that he may have been my twentieth great-grandfather. I come and sit here, and gaze at him and shiver. Think what a terrible time it must have been to live in—when men wore things like that! It couldn’t be any worse to be a crab.”
“You seem to be fond of strange emotions,” said Montague, laughing.