Guy pushed back his chair. "Look here, Tony," he exclaimed, "what on earth are you talking about?"
Tony raised his eyebrows. "Isabel," he explained patiently. "Cousin Isabel. The nice little red-haired girl you were teaching gardening to yesterday. She is the only daughter of that late lamented inebriate—Don Francisco of Livadia."
With a startled ejaculation Guy suddenly sat up straight in his chair. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing intelligible seemed to suggest itself.
"Furthermore," pursued Tony tranquilly, "she is the affianced wife of our illustrious little pal King Pedro the Fifth. That of course explains why she has run away."
By a supreme effort Guy succeeded in regaining his lost powers of conversation. His face was a beautiful study in amazement, dismay, and incredulity.
"But—but—Good Heavens!" he gasped; "This can't be true! You must be joking!"
"Joking!" repeated Tony sternly. "Of course I'm not joking. No respectable Englishman ever jokes at breakfast."
Guy threw up his hands with a gesture that was almost tragic.
"Well, if it's true," he observed, "you have just about gone and done it this time with a vengeance." He got up from his seat, took a couple of agitated paces towards the window, and then came back to the table where the future member for Balham North was still placidly munching his toast. "Good Lord, Tony!" he exclaimed; "don't you understand what a serious matter this is?"
"Of course I do," said Tony. "You don't suppose I would talk about it at breakfast otherwise."