“Paris!” murmured the bride ecstatically.

“Then I would like to trickle southwards to the Riviera. . .”

“If you mean Monte Carlo, dear,” said his wife with gentle firmness, “no!”

“No, no, not Monte Carlo,” said Reggie hastily, “though it’s a great place.  Air—­scenery—­and what not!  But Nice and Bordighera and Mentone and other fairly ripe resorts.  You’d enjoy them.  And after that . . .  I had a scheme for buying back my yacht, the jolly old Siren, and cruising about the Mediterranean for a month or so.  I sold her to a local sportsman when I was in America a couple of years ago.  But I saw in the paper yesterday that the poor old buffer had died suddenly, so I suppose it would be difficult to get hold of her for the time being.”  Reggie broke off with a sharp exclamation.

“My sainted aunt!”

“What’s the matter?”

Both his companions were looking past him, wide-eyed.  George occupied the chair that had its back to the door, and was unable to see what it was that had caused their consternation; but he deduced that someone known to both of them must have entered the restaurant; and his first thought, perhaps naturally, was that it must be Reggie’s “mater”.  Reggie dived behind a menu, which he held before him like a shield, and his bride, after one quick look, had turned away so that her face was hidden.  George swung around, but the newcomer, whoever he or she was, was now seated and indistinguishable from the rest of the lunchers.

“Who is it?”

Reggie laid down the menu with the air of one who after a momentary panic rallies.

“Don’t know what I’m making such a fuss about,” he said stoutly.  “I keep forgetting that none of these blighters really matter in the scheme of things.  I’ve a good mind to go over and pass the time of day.”

“Don’t!” pleaded his wife.  “I feel so guilty.”

“Who is it?” asked George again.  “Your step-mother?”

“Great Scott, no!” said Reggie.  “Nothing so bad as that.  It’s old Marshmoreton.”

“Lord Marshmoreton!”

“Absolutely!  And looking positively festive.”

“I feel so awful, Mr. Bevan,” said Alice.  “You know, I left the castle without a word to anyone, and he doesn’t know yet that there won’t be any secretary waiting for him when he gets back.”

Reggie took another look over George’s shoulder and chuckled.

“It’s all right, darling.  Don’t worry.  We can nip off secretly by the other door.  He’s not going to stop us.  He’s got a girl with him!  The old boy has come to life—­absolutely!  He’s gassing away sixteen to the dozen to a frightfully pretty girl with gold hair.  If you slew the old bean round at an angle of about forty-five, Bevan, old top, you can see her.  Take a look.  He won’t see you.  He’s got his back to us.”

“Do you call her pretty?” asked Alice disparagingly.

“Now that I take a good look, precious,” replied Reggie with alacrity, “no!  Absolutely not!  Not my style at all!”