“She is, Lord Bazelhurst.  We’ll talk this over later on,” said Shaw in his friendliest way.  “You are worn out and done up, I’m sure—­you and your friends.  Come!  I’m not as bad as you think.  I’ve changed my mind since I saw you last.  Let’s see if we can’t come to an amicable understanding.  Miss Drake is waiting up there.  Breakfast soon will be ready—­hot coffee and all that.  Permit me, gentlemen, to invite you to partake of what we have.  What say you?”

“Confound you, sir, I—­I—­” but his brave effort failed him.  He staggered and would have fallen had not the duke caught him from behind.

“Thanks, old chap,” said Barminster to Shaw.  “We will come in for a moment.  I say, perhaps you could give us a dry dud or two.  Bazelhurst is in a bad way and so is the count.  It was a devil of a storm.”

“Mon Dieu! c’etait epouvantable!” groaned the count.

Penelope came down from the porch to meet them.  Without a word she took her brother’s arm.  He stared at her with growing resentment.

“Dem it all, Pen,” he chattered, “you’re not at all wet, are you?  Look at me!  All on your account, too.”

“Dear old Cecil!  All on Evelyn’s account, you mean,” she said softly, wistfully.

“I shall have an understanding with her when we get home,” he said earnestly.  “She sha’n’t treat my sister like this again.”

“No,” said Shaw from the other side; “she sha’n’t.”

“By Jove, Shaw, are you with me?” demanded his lordship in surprise.

“Depends on whether you are with me,” said the other.  Penelope flushed warmly.

Later on, three chastened but ludicrous objects shuffled into the breakfast-room, where Shaw and Penelope awaited them.  In passing, it is only necessary to say that Randolph Shaw’s clothes did not fit the gentlemen to whom they were loaned.  Bazelhurst was utterly lost in the folds of a gray tweed, while the count was obliged to roll up the sleeves and legs of a frock suit which fitted Shaw rather too snugly.  The duke, larger than the others, was passably fair in an old swallow-tail coat and brown trousers.  They were clean, but there was a strong odor of arnica about them.  Each wore, besides, an uncertain, sheepish smile.

Hot coffee, chops, griddle cakes, and maple syrup soon put the contending forces at their ease.  Bazelhurst so far forgot himself as to laugh amiably at his host’s jokes.  The count responded in his most piquant dialect, and the duke swore by an ever-useful Lord Harry that he had never tasted such a breakfast.

“By Jove, Pen,” exclaimed her brother, in rare good humor, “it’s almost a sin to take you away from such good cooking as this.”

“You’re not going to take her away, however,” said Shaw.  “She has come to stay.”

There was a stony silence.  Coffee-cups hung suspended in the journey to mouths, and three pairs of eyes stared blankly at the smiling speaker.