we are cousins. You are Ambrosine to me, or my dearest little
Comtesse."

The clock struck half-past six. The servants entered the room to take
the tea-things away, and while they were there a footman brought in
three telegrams, one for me and two for my host.

Mine was from Augustus, and ran:

"Hope you have arrived safely. Hear fog bad in country too.
Impossible to get to Liverpool Street yet. Awfully worried
at your being alone there. Shall come by last train."

Antony handed the two others to me. One was from Lady Grenellen, the
other from Augustus, both expressing their annoyance and regret. The
telegrams were all sent off at the same hour from Piccadilly, so
apparently they were together, my husband and his friend.

"It is comic," I said, "this situation! Augustus and Lady Grenellen
fog-bound in London, and you and I here, it is the fault of none of
us."

"I like a fog," said Antony, with his old, whimsical smile, all trace
of seriousness departed. "A good, useful thing, a fog. Hope it won't
lift in a hurry."

"Now come and show me the ancestors," I said.

He led the way to the drawing-room--a great room, all painted white,
too, and in each faded green-brocade panel hangs a picture. The
electric lights are so arranged that each was perfectly illuminated.

They were all interesting to me, especially the portraits of our
common ancestors.

"That must be your grandfather's father," said Antony, pointing to a
portly gentleman, with lightly powdered hair and a blue riding-coat,
painted at the end of the eighteenth century. "It was his eldest son,
who had no sons, and left the place to his daughter, who married Sir
Geoffrey Thornhirst."

"But where is your great-great-grandmother that you told me about,
and rather insinuated she was as nice as my Ambrosine Eustasie de
Calincourt?"

"There she is, in the place of honor. She was painted by Gainsborough,
after she married. What do you think of her?"

"Oh! she is lovely," I said, "and she has your cat's eyes."

"'She is your ancestress, too, but she is not like you. Do you see the
dog in the picture?"

"Yes. Why, it is just the portrait of one of your three knights!"

"Have you never heard the tradition, then?"

"No."

"As long as Dane Mount possesses that breed of dogs fortune is to
favor the owner; but if they die out I can't tell you what calamities
are not to overtake him. It has been going for hundreds of years."

"Then Ulfus, Belf