“Milady,” said the chauffeur, bowing low, “I have the honor to relate to you that I went to the house of Monsieur Long and found him to be not at home.  As I came back I see this gentleman in combat against—­how you say—­greatest odds.  He is fighting with five—­ten—­thirty men—­gendarmes, aussi.  Yes, milady, he what you call ‘swat’ one—­three—­eight policemans.  If that Monsieur Long is out I say to myself this gentleman he will serve milady so well, and I bring him here.”

“Very well, Armand,” said the lady, “you may go.”  She turned to Hopkins.

“I sent my chauffeur,” she said, “to bring my cousin, Walter Long.  There is a man in this house who has treated me with insult and abuse.  I have complained to my aunt, and she laughs at me.  Armand says you are brave.  In these prosaic days men who are both brave and chivalrous are few.  May I count upon your assistance?”

John Hopkins thrust the remains of his cigar into his coat pocket.  He looked upon this winning creature and felt his first thrill of romance.  It was a knightly love, and contained no disloyalty to the flat with the flea-bitten terrier and the lady of his choice.  He had married her after a picnic of the Lady Label Stickers’ Union, Lodge No. 2, on a dare and a bet of new hats and chowder all around with his friend, Billy McManus.  This angel who was begging him to come to her rescue was something too heavenly for chowder, and as for hats—­golden, jewelled crowns for her!

“Say,” said John Hopkins, “just show me the guy that you’ve got the grouch at.  I’ve neglected my talents as a scrapper heretofore, but this is my busy night.”

“He is in there,” said the lady, pointing to a closed door.  “Come.  Are you sure that you do not falter or fear?”

“Me?” said John Hopkins.  “Just give me one of those roses in the bunch you are wearing, will you?”

The lady gave him a red, red rose.  John Hopkins kissed it, stuffed it into his vest pocket, opened the door and walked into the room.  It was a handsome library, softly but brightly lighted.  A young man was there, reading.

“Books on etiquette is what you want to study,” said John Hopkins, abruptly.  “Get up here, and I’ll give you some lessors.  Be rude to a lady, will you?”

The young man looked mildly surprised.  Then he arose languidly, dextrously caught the arms of John Hopkins and conducted him irresistibly to the front door of the house.

“Beware, Ralph Branscombe,” cried the lady, who had followed, “what you do to the gallant man who has tried to protect me.”

The young man shoved John Hopkins gently out the door and then closed it.

“Bess,” he said calmly, “I wish you would quit reading historical novels.  How in the world did that fellow get in here?”

“Armand brought him,” said the young lady.  “I think you are awfully mean not to let me have that St. Bernard.  I sent Armand for Walter.  I was so angry with you.”