“Now, see here, Pen, you shouldn’t say that.  Shaw’s a d——­, a cad.  See what Cecil did to him.  Remember that?  Well, pooh!  What would I do to him?” Penelope looked him over critically.

“I’ll admit that you’re larger and younger than Cecil,” she confessed grudgingly.  “But they say Mr. Shaw is a giant-killer.”  The duke dropped his monocle and guffawed loudly.

“Good!” he cried in the ecstasy of pride.  His worn, dissipated face lighted up with unwonted interest.  “I say, Pen, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in a week.  You’ve been so deuced cold of late.  I don’t understand.  I’m not such a bad lot, you know.”

“Tell that to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. Corwith.  They’re looking for the good in everything.”

“By Jove, I believe you’re jealous!  This is the proudest moment of my life.”

“Don’t be silly!  And don’t try to make love to me any more.  Wait until I’m married,” she added with a laugh, the irony of which escaped him.

“But, hang it all, suppose you should marry some one else and not me.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Oh!” he said, perplexed.  Then, as if his stupidity called for an explanation:  “I had a beastly night.  Didn’t go to bed till four.  But, I say, why can’t I have the same privilege as these other chaps?  Corwith makes love to you and so does Odwell, and, hang it, they’re both married.  It’s rotten mean of—­”

“Their wives are accountable for their manners, not I. But, come; will you go to Renwood’s with me?”

“I’d rather talk to you in that nice little corner of the billiard-room, at home, if you—­”

“But I don’t need a brandy and soda.  Oh!” This exclamation came with the discovery of an approaching horseman.  “It’s Mr. Shaw—­I’m sure.”

Randolph Shaw, loyal to his feudal promise, appeared in the road a couple of hundred yards away.  He drew rein and from that distance surveyed the two who were so near to encroaching upon his preserves.  He sat straight and forbidding in the saddle.  For a full minute the two factions stared at each other.  Then, without a sign of recognition, Shaw turned and rode rapidly away.

“He rides like a gentleman,” commented Miss Drake, after reflection.

“Indian blood in him,” remarked her companion.

“Let us go home,” said she, whirling her horse like a flash.  The duke had some difficulty in keeping abreast of her during the ride and he lost sight of her altogether after they dismounted at Bazelhurst Villa.

The momentary glimpse of a real man set Penelope’s opinions on edge for the remainder of the day and night.  Shaw, whatever else he might be, was a man.  Even while others addressed her in conversation she was absent-mindedly recalling to memory certain English gentlemen at home who could stand comparison with this handsome fellow across the danger line.  But to compare any one of the men in Lady Bazelhurst’s