When Davenant returned to the house in the Rue St.-Honoré, he found that although Léon had long since come in, and was now in bed, his Grace was still out. Guessing that Avon had gone from Vassaud's to visit his latest light o' love, Hugh went into the library to await him. Soon the Duke sauntered in, poured himself out a glass of canary wine, and came to the fire.
"A most instructive evening. I hope my very dear friend Saint-Vire recovered from the sorrow my early departure must have occasioned him?"
"I think so," smiled Hugh. He rested his head back against the cushions of his chair, and looked at the Duke with rather a puzzled expression on his face. "Why do you so hate one another, Justin?"
The straight brows rose.
"Hate? I? My dear Hugh!"
"Very well, if you like it better I will say why does Saint-Vire hate you?"
"It is a very old tale, Hugh; almost a forgotten tale. The—er—contretemps between the amiable Comte and myself took place in the days before I had the advantage of possessing your friendship, you see."
"So there was a contretemps? I suppose you behaved abominably?"
"What I admire in you, my dear, is your charming candour," remarked his Grace. But in this instance I did not behave abominably. Amazing, is it not?"
"What happened?"
31
