comestibles
because decorated by the cook with a paper frill and bow of ribbon! The
atmosphere which Lord Reginald Wrotham brought with him into the
common-room of the bar was redolent of tobacco-smoke and whisky, yet,
judging from the various propitiatory, timid, anxious, or servile looks
cast upon him by all and sundry, it might have been fragrant and sacred
incense wafted from the altars of the goddess Fortune to her waiting
votaries. Helmsley's spirit rose up in contempt against the effete dandy
as he watched him leaning carelessly against the counter, twirling his
thin sandy moustache, and talking to his hostess merely for the sake of
offensively ogling her two daughters.

"Charming old place you have here!--charming!" drawled his lordship.
"Perfect dream! Love to pass all my days in such a delightful spot! 'Pon
my life! Awful luck for us, the motor breaking down, or we never should
have stopped at such a jolly place, don't-cher-know. Should we,
Brookfield?"

Brookfield, gently scratching a pimple on his fat, clean-shaven face,
smiled knowingly.

"_Couldn't_ have stopped!" he declared. "We were doing a record run. But
we should have missed a great deal,--a great deal!" And he emitted a
soft chuckle. "Not only the place,--but----!"

He waved his hand explanatorily, with a slight bow, which implied an
unspoken compliment to the looks of the mistress of the inn and her
family. One of the young women blushed and peeped slyly up at him. He
returned the glance with interest.

"May I ask," pursued Lord Wrotham, with an amicable leer, "the names of
your two daughters, Madam? They've been awfully kind to us
broken-down-travellers--should just like to know the difference between
them. Like two roses on one stalk, don't-cher-know! Can't tell which is
which!"

The mother of the girls hesitated a moment. She was not quite sure that
she liked the "tone" of his lordship's speech. Finally she replied
somewhat stiffly:--

"My eldest daughter is named Elizabeth, my lord, and her sister is
Grace."

"Elizabeth and Grace! Charming!" murmured Wrotham, leaning a little more
confidentially over the counter--"Now which--which is Grace?"

At that moment a tall, shadowy form darkened the open doorway of the
inn, and a man entered, carrying in his arms a small oblong bundle
covered with a piece of rough horse-cloth. Placing his burden down on a
vacant bench, he pushed his cap from his brows and stared wildly about
him. Every one