“Dear ma’am, believe me, it is the greatest satisfaction to me to be able to perceive, at a glance, that you have not changed — not by so much as a hairsbreadth!” Gervase responded, bowing over her hand.

So sweetly were the words uttered, that everyone, except the Dowager, was left in doubt of their exact significance. The Dowager, who would have found it hard to believe that she could be the object of satire, was unmoved. “No, I fancy I do not alter,” she said complacently. “No doubt, however, you see a great change in your brother.”

“A great change,” agreed Gervase, holding out his hand to Martin, and scanning him out of his smiling, blue eyes. “Can you be my little brother? It seems so unlikely! I should not have recognized you.” He turned, offering hand and smile to the Chaplain. “But Mr. Clowne I must certainly have known anywhere! How do you do?”

The Chaplain, who, from the moment of the Earl’s handing his hat to Abney, had stood staring at him as though he could not drag his eyes from his face, seemed to be a trifle shaken, and answered with much less than his usual urbanity: “And I you, my lord! For one moment it was as though — Your lordship must forgive me! Memory serves one some strange tricks.”

“You mean, I think, that I am very like my mother,” said Gervase. “I am glad — though it is a resemblance which has brought upon me in the past much that I wish to forget.”

“It has frequently been remarked,” stated the Dowager, “that Martin is the very likeness of all the Frants.”

“You are too severe, ma’am,” said Gervase gently.

“Let me tell you, St. Erth, that if I favour the Frants I am devilish glad to hear it!” said Martin.