s ready, my lord."

Lord Peter Bowen opened his eyes as if reluctant to acknowledge that
another day had dawned. He stretched his limbs and yawned luxuriously.
For the next few moments he lay watching his man, Peel, as he moved
noiselessly about the room, idly speculating as to whether such
precision and self-repression were natural or acquired.

To Bowen Peel was a source of never-ending interest. No matter at what
hour Bowen had seen him, Peel always appeared as if he had just shaved.
In his every action there was purpose, and every purpose was governed
by one law--order. He was noiseless, wordless, selfless. Bowen was
convinced that were he to die suddenly and someone chance to call, Peel
would merely say: "His Lordship is not at home, sir."

Thin of face, small of stature, precise of movement, Peel possessed the
individuality of negation. He looked nothing in particular, seemed
nothing in particular, did everything to perfection. His face was a
barrier to intimacy, his demeanour a gulf to the curious: he betrayed
neither emotion nor confidence. In short he was the most perfect
gentleman's servant in existence.

"What's the time, Peel?" enquired Bowen.

"Seven forty-three, my lord," replied the meticulous Peel, glancing at
the clock on the mantel-piece.

"Have I any engagements to-day?" queried his master.

"No, my lord. You have refused to make any since last Thursday
morning."

Then Bowen remembered. He had pleaded pressure at the War Office as an
excuse for declining all invitations. He was determined that nothing
should interfere with his seeing Patricia should she unbend. With the
thought of Patricia returned the memory of the previous night's events.
Bowen cursed himself for the mess he had made of things. Every act of
his had seemed to result only in one thing, the angering of Patricia.
Even then things might have gone well if it had not been for his
wretched bad luck in being the son of a peer.

As he lay watching Peel, Bowen felt in a mood to condole with himself.
Confound it! Surely it could not be urged against him as his fault
that he had a wretched title. He had been given no say in the matter.
As for telling Patricia, could he immediately on meeting her blurt out,
"I'm a lord?" Supposing he had introduced himself as
"Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Peter Bowen." How ridiculous it would have
sounded. He had come to hate the very sound of the word "lord."

"It's ten minutes to eight,