Napoleon Errol was. It was he who so kindly shunted Mrs. Damer on to me.
_Nota bene_! Give Napoleon Errol a wide berth in future. He has the craft
of a conjurer and the subtlety of a serpent. I believe he is a Red
Indian, myself."

"Oh, Ralph, he isn't! He is as white as you are."

"He isn't white at all," Ralph declared, "outside or in. Outside he is
the colour of a mangold-wurzel, and inside he is as black as ink. You
will never get that cake made if you don't go."

"Oh, bother!" Dot swung open the door for the last time, turned to
depart, and then exclaimed in a very different tone, "Why, Bertie, so
here you are! We were just talking of you."

A straight, well-made youth, with a brown face that laughed
good-temperedly, was advancing through the hall.

"Hullo!" he said, halting at the doorway. "Awfully nice of you! What were
you saying, I wonder? Hullo, Ralph! Only just down, you lazy beggar?
Ought to be ashamed of yourself."

He stood, slapping his riding-boots with a switch, looking at Dot with
the direct eyes of good-fellowship. His eyes were clear and honest as
a child's.

"Dad's away," said Dot. "He was sent for early this morning."

"Is he though? That means a holiday. What shall we do?"

"I don't know what you will do," said Dot. "I am going to bake cakes."

"I'll come and bake cakes too," said Bertie promptly. "I'm rather a swell
at that. I can make fudge too, real American fudge, the most aristocratic
thing on the market. It's a secret, of course, but I'll let you into it,
if you'll promise not to tell."

"How do you know I can keep a secret?" laughed Dot, leading the way to
the kitchen.

"You would keep a promise," he said with conviction.

"If I made one," she threw back.

"I would trust you without," he declared.

"Very rash of you! I wonder if you are as trustworthy as that."

"My word is my bond--always," said Bertie.

She turned and looked at him critically. "Yes, I think it is," she
admitted. "You are quite the honestest boy I ever met. They ought to have
called you George Washington."

"You may if you like," said Bertie.

She laughed--her own inexpressibly gay laugh. "All right, George! It
suits you perfectly. I always did think Bertie was a silly name. Why
didn't you go to the Hunt Ball last night?"

Bertie's merry face sobered. "My brother wasn't so well yesterday. I was
reading to him half the night. He couldn't sleep, and Tawny Hudson is no
good for that sort of thing."