Jack explained.  The fair-haired young man let him finish in peace, and then said, slowly, “Isn’t your name Dane?”

“It is,” replied my brother.

“Thought I knew your face,” went on the other.  “So you’ve taken to chauffeuring as a last resort—­what?”

He was intended by Providence to be good looking, but so snobbish was his expression as he spoke, so cruelly sarcastic his voice, that he became hideous in my eyes.  A bleached skull grinning over a tall collar could not have seemed more repulsive than the pink, healthy features of that young man with his single eye-glass and his sneer.

Jack paid no more attention than if he had not heard, but the slight stiffening of his face and raising of his eyebrows as he turned to Sir Samuel, made him look supremely proud and distinguished, incomparably more a gentleman in his dusty leather livery, than Bertie in his well-cut evening clothes.

“I called at the railway station, and the luggage will be here before eight to-morrow morning,” he said, quietly.

“All right, all right,” replied Sir Samuel, slow to understand what was going on, but uncomfortable between the two young men.  “I didn’t know that you were acquainted with my stepson, Dane.”

“It was scarcely an acquaintance, sir,” said the chauffeur.  “And I wasn’t aware that Mr. Stokes was your stepson.”

“If you had been, you jolly well wouldn’t have taken the engagement—­what?” remarked Bertie, with a hateful laugh.

This time Jack condescended to look at him; from the head down, from the feet up.  “Really,” he said, after an instant’s reflection, “it wouldn’t have been fair to Sir Samuel to feel a prejudice on account of the relationship.  If one of the servants would kindly show me the garage—­”

CHAPTER XXVI

If it hadn’t been for the hope of seeing Jack again, I should have said that I wanted nothing to eat, when I was asked; but I thought that he might come to the servants’ dining-room, if only because he would expect to find me there; and I was right:  he came.

“What an imbroglio!” I whispered, as he joined me at the table, where hot soup and cold chicken were set forth.

“Not at all,” said he, cheerfully.  “Things are better for me than I thought.  Roquemartine didn’t recognize me, I’m sure, for if he had, he would have said so.  He isn’t a snob.  But I rather hoped he would have forgotten.  I came as a stranger, brought by a friend of his and mine, was here only for a meal (we were motoring then, too)—­and it’s three years ago.”

“But the marquise?”

“She’s a bran new one.  I fancied I’d heard that the wife died.  This one has the air of a bride, and I should say she’s an American.”

“Yes.  She is.  The maid who showed me my room told me.  The other girl who came out of doors, is her sister.  They’re fearfully rich, it seems, and that young brute wants to marry her.”