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believe,” stated the Duchess. “Who did it in less?”
    “I did,” said Avon.
    “Oh, then I do believe it,” said Léonie as a matter of course.
    “How long, sir?” the Marquis said swiftly.
    “Three hours and forty-seven minutes.”
    “Still too generous, sir. Three hours and forty-five minutes should, I think, suffice. You would perhaps, like to lay me odds?”
    “Not in the least,” said his grace. “But three hours and forty-five minutes should certainly suffice.”
    He went out. Léonie said: “Of course I should like you to beat Monseigneur’s record, my little one, but it is very dangerous. Do not kill yourself, Dominique, please.”
    “I won’t,” he answered. “That is a promise, my dear.”
    She tucked her hand in his. “Ah, but it is a promise you could break, mon ange .”
    “Devil a bit!” said his lordship cheerfully. “Ask my uncle. He will tell you I was born to be hanged.”
    “Rupert?” said Léonie scornfully. “ Voyons ,he would not tell me any such thing, because he would not dare.” She retained her clasp on his hand. “Now you will talk to me a little, mon enfant — tout bas .Who is this bourgeoise ?”
    The laugh went out of Vidal’s eyes at that, and his black brows drew close together. “Let be, madame. She is nothing. How did my father hear of her?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know. But this I know, Dominique, you will never be able to hide anything from Monseigneur. And I think he is not quite pleased. It would be better, perhaps, if you did not amuse yourself there.”
    “Content you, maman. I can manage my affairs.”
    “Well, I hope so,” Léonie said doubtfully. “You are quite sure, I suppose, that this will not lead to a mésalliance ?”He looked at her rather sombrely. “You don’t flatter my judgment, madame. Do you think I am so likely to forget what I owe to my name?”
    “Yes,” said her grace candidly, “I think, my dear, that when you have the devil in you—which I perfectly understand—
    you are likely to forget everything.” He disengaged himself, and stood up. “My devil don’t prompt me to marriage, maman,” he said.
     
    Chapter III
    Mrs. Challoner occupied rooms in a genteel part of the town which might be said to touch the fringe of the more fashionable quarter. She was a widow with a jointure quite inadequate for a lady of her ambition, but she had an additional source of income in her brother, who was a city merchant of considerable affluence. From time to time he paid some of Mrs. Challoner’s more pressing bills, and though he did it with a bad grace, and was consistently discouraged by his wife and daughters, he could always be relied upon to step into the breach before matters reached too serious a pass. He said, grumbling, that he did it for his little Sophy’s sake, for he could not bear to see such a monstrous pretty girl go dressed in the rags Mrs. Challoner assured him she was reduced to. His elder niece awoke no such generous feeling in his breast, but since she never exerted herself to captivate him, and always stated in her calm way that she lacked nothing, this was perhaps not surprising. Though he would naturally never admit it, he stood a little in awe of Mary Challoner. She favoured her father, and Henry Simpkins had never been able to feel at ease with his handsome brother-in-law. Charles Challoner had been reckless and graceless, and his own noble family had, declined having any hiter-course with him after he had committed the crowning in-descretion of marriage with Miss Clara Simpkins. He was indolent and spendthrift, and his morals shocked a decent-living merchant. But for all that he had an air, a faint hauteur of manner that set his wife’s relations at a distance, and kept them there. They might assist materially in the upkeep of his establishment, and he was not above permitting them to rescue him from the Spunging House, whenever he was unfortunate enough to fall a victim to his creditors, but a