bedtime. The duke was making desultory love to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. De Peyton was leading him aimlessly toward the shadier and more secluded nooks in the park surrounding the Villa. Penelope, fresh and full of the purpose of life, was off alone for a long stroll. By this means she avoided the attentions of the duke, who wanted to marry her; those of the count who also said he wanted to marry her but could n't because his wife would not consent; those of one New Yorker, who liked her because she was English; and the pallid chatter of the women who bored her with their conjugal cynicisms.
“What the deuce is this coming down the road?” queried the duke, returning from the secluded nook at luncheon time.
“Some one has been hurt,” exclaimed his companion. Others were looking down the leafy road from the gallery.
“By Jove, it's Penelope, don't you know,” ejaculated the duke, dropping his monocle and blinking his eye as if to rest it for the time being.
“But she's not hurt. She's helping to support one of those men.”
“Hey!” shouted his lordship from the gallery, as Penelope and two dilapidated male companions abruptly started to cut across the park in the direction of the stables. “What's up?” Penelope waved her hand aimlessly, but did not change her course. Whereupon the entire house party sallied forth in more or less trepidation to intercept the strange party.
“Who are these men?” demanded Lady Bazelhurst, as they came up to the fast-breathing young Englishwoman.
“Don't bother me, please. We must get him to bed at once. He'll have pneumonia,” replied Penelope.
Both men were dripping wet and the one in the middle limped painfully, probably because both eyes were swollen tight and his nose was bleeding. Penelope's face was beaming with excitement and interest.
“Who are you?” demanded his lordship, planting himself in front of the shivering twain.
“Tompkins,” murmured the blind one feebly, tears starting from the blue slits and rolling down his cheeks.
“James, sir,” answered the
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