“I wish some of the juveniles in the shows I’ve been in,” said Billie, “were as young as you.  It’s getting so nowadays that one’s thankful if a juvenile has teeth.”  She glanced across the room.  “Your pals are walking out on you, George.  The people you were lunching with,” she explained.  “They’re leaving.”

“That’s all right.  I said good-bye to them.”  He looked at Lord Marshmoreton.  It seemed a suitable opportunity to break the news.  “I was lunching with Mr. and Mrs. Byng,” he said.

Nothing appeared to stir beneath Lord Marshmoreton’s tanned forehead.

“Reggie Byng and his wife, Lord Marshmoreton,” added George.

This time he secured the earl’s interest.  Lord Marshmoreton started.

“What!”

“They are just off to Paris,” said George.

“Reggie Byng is not married!”

“Married this morning.  I was best man.”

“Busy little creature!” interjected Billie.

“But—­but—!”

“You know his wife,” said George casually.  “She was a Miss Faraday.  I think she was your secretary.”

It would have been impossible to deny that Lord Marshmoreton showed emotion.  His mouth opened, and he clutched the tablecloth.  But just what the emotion was George was unable to say till, with a sigh that seemed to come from his innermost being, the other exclaimed “Thank Heaven!”

George was surprised.

“You’re glad?”

“Of course I’m glad!”

“It’s a pity they didn’t know how you were going to feel.  It would have saved them a lot of anxiety.  I rather gathered they supposed that the shock was apt to darken your whole life.”

“That girl,” said Lord Marshmoreton vehemently, “was driving me crazy.  Always bothering me to come and work on that damned family history.  Never gave me a moment’s peace . . .”

“I liked her,” said George.

“Nice enough girl,” admitted his lordship grudgingly.  “But a damned nuisance about the house; always at me to go on with the family history.  As if there weren’t better things to do with one’s time than writing all day about my infernal fools of ancestors!”

“Isn’t dadda fractious today?” said Billie reprovingly, giving the Earl’s hand a pat.  “Quit knocking your ancestors!  You’re very lucky to have ancestors.  I wish I had.  The Dore family seems to go back about as far as the presidency of Willard Filmore, and then it kind of gets discouraged and quite cold.  Gee!  I’d like to feel that my great-great-great-grandmother had helped Queen Elizabeth with the rent.  I’m strong for the fine old stately families of England.”

“Stately old fiddlesticks!” snapped the earl.

“Did you see his eyes flash then, George?  That’s what they call aristocratic rage.  It’s the fine old spirit of the Marshmoretons boiling over.”

“I noticed it,” said George.  “Just like lightning.”

“It’s no use trying to fool us, dadda,” said Billie.  “You know just as well as I do that it makes you feel good to think that, every time you cut yourself with your safety-razor, you bleed blue!”