He frowned.

“Do not call me Sir Antony, child.  It hurts me.  You must not forget we are cousins.  You are Ambrosine to me, or my dearest little Comtesse.”

The clock struck half-past six.  The servants entered the room to take the tea-things away, and while they were there a footman brought in three telegrams, one for me and two for my host.

Mine was from Augustus, and ran: 

    “Hope you have arrived safely.  Hear fog bad in country too. 
    Impossible to get to Liverpool Street yet.  Awfully worried
    at your being alone there.  Shall come by last train.”

Antony handed the two others to me.  One was from Lady Grenellen, the other from Augustus, both expressing their annoyance and regret.  The telegrams were all sent off at the same hour from Piccadilly, so apparently they were together, my husband and his friend.

“It is comic,” I said, “this situation!  Augustus and Lady Grenellen fog-bound in London, and you and I here, it is the fault of none of us.”

“I like a fog,” said Antony, with his old, whimsical smile, all trace of seriousness departed.  “A good, useful thing, a fog.  Hope it won’t lift in a hurry.”

“Now come and show me the ancestors,” I said.

He led the way to the drawing-room—­a great room, all painted white, too, and in each faded green-brocade panel hangs a picture.  The electric lights are so arranged that each was perfectly illuminated.

They were all interesting to me, especially the portraits of our common ancestors.

“That must be your grandfather’s father,” said Antony, pointing to a portly gentleman, with lightly powdered hair and a blue riding-coat, painted at the end of the eighteenth century.  “It was his eldest son, who had no sons, and left the place to his daughter, who married Sir Geoffrey Thornhirst.”

“But where is your great-great-grandmother that you told me about, and rather insinuated she was as nice as my Ambrosine Eustasie de Calincourt?”

“There she is, in the place of honor.  She was painted by Gainsborough, after she married.  What do you think of her?”

“Oh! she is lovely,” I said, “and she has your cat’s eyes.”

“’She is your ancestress, too, but she is not like you.  Do you see the dog in the picture?”

“Yes.  Why, it is just the portrait of one of your three knights!”

“Have you never heard the tradition, then?”

“No.”

“As long as Dane Mount possesses that breed of dogs fortune is to favor the owner; but if they die out I can’t tell you what calamities are not to overtake him.  It has been going for hundreds of years.”

“Then Ulfus, Belfus, and Bedevere are the descendants of that dog in the picture?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder they give themselves such airs.”

“Do you hear that, boys?” said Antony, turning to the three, who had again followed us.  “My Comtesse says you give yourselves airs.  Come and die for her to show her your real sentiments.”