"Of course, we were kids together."
"'Kids 'together!'"
"Youngsters, don't you know. I'm the Duke of Staines."
"The You are the"
For the life of her, Mrs. Paynter could have got no further. The stranger supplied the rest of the sentence.
"The Duke of Staines." He turned to Miss Paynter. "Are you going to Boulogne?"
"We were thinking of going to Paris."
"Oh!" His countenance fell. "I wish you were going to Boulogne."
"Why?"
"Well, I'm going to Boulogne."
Miss Paynter smiled outright at this; she had more presence of mind than her mother. "The inference conveyed is very flattering."
"Is it? I don't know."
He stared at her stolidly. Mrs. Paynter found her breath again.
"Did I understand you to say Really, I had no idea—you must excuse me. Did I understand you to say that you were—the Duke of Staines?"
"That's me."
Mrs. Paynter regarded him askance. She could not make up her mind if he was or was not making fun of her. She was not a wise woman. She had never before come into personal contact with any member of the British aristocracy. Could such an extremely vulgar individual as this one appeared to be really be a duke? She endeavoured, to the best of her small ability, to make sure of her ground.
