Mr. Beach turned to Joan.

“We are speaking of the Stockheath breach-of-promise case, Miss Simpson, of which you doubtless read in the newspapers.  Lord Stockheath is a nephew of ours.  I fancy his lordship was greatly shocked at the occurrence.”

“He was,” chimed in Mr. Judson from down the table.  “I happened to overhear him speaking of it to young Freddie.  It was in the library on the morning when the judge made his final summing up and slipped it into Lord Stockheath so proper.  ’If ever anything of this sort happens to you, you young scalawag,’ he says to Freddie—­”

Mr. Beach coughed.  “Mr. Judson!”

“Oh, it’s all right, Mr. Beach; we’re all in the family here, in a manner of speaking.  It wasn’t as though I was telling it to a lot of outsiders.  I’m sure none of these ladies or gentlemen will let it go beyond this room?”

The company murmured virtuous acquiescence.

“He says to Freddie:  ’You young scalawag, if ever anything of this sort happens to you, you can pack up and go off to Canada, for I’ll have nothing more to do with you!’—­or words to that effect.  And Freddie says:  ’Oh, dash it all, gov’nor, you know—­what?’”

However short Mr. Judson’s imitation of his master’s voice may have fallen of histrionic perfection, it pleased the company.  The room shook with mirth.

“Mr. Judson is clever, isn’t he, Mr. Marson?” whispered Miss Willoughby, gazing with adoring eyes at the speaker.

Mr. Beach thought it expedient to deflect the conversation.  By the unwritten law of the room every individual had the right to speak as freely as he wished about his own personal employer; but Judson, in his opinion, sometimes went a trifle too far.

“Tell me, Mr. Ferris,” he said, “does his lordship seem to bear it well?”

“Oh, Percy is bearing it well enough.”

Ashe noted as a curious fact that, though the actual valet of any person under discussion spoke of him almost affectionately by his Christian name, the rest of the company used the greatest ceremony and gave him his title with all respect.  Lord Stockheath was Percy to Mr. Ferris, and the Honorable Frederick Threepwood was Freddie to Mr. Judson; but to Ferris, Mr. Judson’s Freddie was the Honorable Frederick, and to Judson Mr. Ferris’ Percy was Lord Stockheath.  It was rather a pleasant form of etiquette, and struck Ashe as somehow vaguely feudal.

“Percy,” went on Mr. Ferris, “is bearing it like a little Briton—­the damages not having come out of his pocket!  It’s his old father—­who had to pay them—­that’s taking it to heart.  You might say he’s doing himself proud.  He says it’s brought on his gout again, and that’s why he’s gone to Droitwich instead of coming here.  I dare say Percy isn’t sorry.”

“It has been,” said Mr. Beach, summing up, “a most unfortunate occurrence.  The modern tendency of the lower classes to get above themselves is becoming more marked every day.  The young female in this case was, I understand, a barmaid.  It is deplorable that our young men should allow themselves to get into such entanglements.”