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 were down. Sybil, presiding at the tea and coffee equipage, was evincing deep interest in Mrs. Talmage Eglinton’s narrative of her purchases in London the day before; Mrs. Sherman was wondering to Mrs. Sadgrove whether “Leonidas” would come straight to Prior’s Tarrant, or insist on depositing the bonds in the Bank of England first; and Leonie was looking dreamily through the open windows across the park—she was often dreaming nowadays; so was the Duke.

Presently General Sadgrove strode in and took his seat, making no apology, because breakfast was a come-as-you-please meal, and no one was expected to be punctual. But when he had said good-morning all round he glanced uneasily at the vacant places of Beaumanoir and Forsyth. The two young men were usually up and about before anyone.

Mrs. Talmage Eglinton had broken off in the middle of describing a new and ravishing hat to Sybil in order to smile a welcome to the grim old warrior. She was now following the direction of his glance, and commented on it in sprightly fashion.

“The naughty Duke and the naughty Mr. Forsyth!” she purred. “I believe you men