Poor Theodora was crushed and did not try to excuse herself.

“I am afraid Josiah won’t go, papa dear,” she said, timidly; “and in case he does not allow me to either, I want you to have these few louis, just for the breakfast.  I know how generous you are, and how difficult things have been made for you, darling.”  And she nestled to his side and slipped about eight gold pieces, which she had fortunately found in her purse, into his hand.

Captain Fitzgerald was still a gentleman, although a good many edges of his sensitive perceptions had been rubbed off.

He kissed his daughter fondly while he murmured:  “Merely a loan, my pet, merely a loan.  You were always a jewel to your old father!”

Whenever her parent accused himself of being “old,” Theodora knew he was deeply touched, and her tender heart overflowed with gladness that she was able to smooth the path of such a darling papa.

“I will come and see you in the morning, my child,” he said, as they stopped at the door of her hotel, “and I will manage Josiah.”

So Theodora crept up to her apartment, comforted; and in the salon it was she caught sight of the Peerage.

Josiah Brown bought one every year and travelled with it, although until he met the Fitzgerald family he had not known a single person connected with it; but it pleased him to be able to look up his wife’s name, and to read that her mother was the daughter of a real live earl and her father the brother of a baronet.

“Hector!  I like the name of Hector,” were the last coherent thoughts which floated through the brain of Theodora before sleep closed her broad, white lids.

Meanwhile, Lord Bracondale had gone on to sup at the Cafe de Paris, with Marion de Beauvoison and Esclarmonde de Chartres; and among the diamonds and pearls and scents and feathers he suddenly felt a burning disgust, and a longing to be out again in the moonlight—­alone with his thoughts.

“Mais qu’as tu, mon vieux chou?” they said.  “Ce bel Hector cheri—­il a un beguin pour quelqu’un—­mais ce n’est pas pour nous autres!”

III

Josiah Brown cut the top off his oeuf a la coque with a knife at his premier dejeuner next day.  The knife grated on the shell in a determined way, and Theodora felt her heart sink at the prospect of broaching the subject of the breakfast at the Cafe Henry.

“I am so glad the rain has stopped,” she said, nervously.  “It was raining when I woke this morning.”

“Indeed,” replied Josiah.  “And what kind of an evening did you pass with that father of yours?”

“A very pleasant one,” said Theodora, crumbling her roll.  “Papa met some old friends, and we all dined together at the Ritz.  I wish you had been able to come, it might have done you good, it was so gay!”

“I am not fit for gayety,” said her husband, peevishly, scooping out spoonfuls of yolk.  “And who were the party, pray?”