"Presently. As I was saying, she would miss the chance of marrying
the best man in the world for the sake of taking a rise out of him.
Moreover, she comes of old Cavalier stock with an English earldom
at the back of it, and she is inordinately proud of the fact; while
you--er--you've given me to understand that you are a man of the
people, haven't you?"

Winton nodded absently. It was one of his minor fads to ignore his
lineage, which ran decently back to a Colonial governor on his
father's side, and to assert that he did not know his grandfather's
middle name--which was accounted for by the very simple fact that
the elder Winton had no middle name.

"Well, that settles it definitely," was the Bostonian's comment.
"Miss Carteret is of the _sang azur_. The man who marries her will
have to know his grandfather's middle name--and a good bit more
besides."

Winton's laugh was mockingly good-natured.

"You have missed your calling by something more than a hair's-breadth,
Morty. You should have been a novelist. Give you a spike and a
cross-tie and you'd infer a whole railroad. But you pique my
curiosity. Where are these American royalties of yours going in the
Rosemary?"

"To California. The car belongs to Mr. Somerville Darrah, who is
vice-president and manager in fact of the Colorado and Grand River
road: the 'Rajah,' they call him. He is a relative of the Carterets,
and the party is on its way to spend the winter on the Pacific coast."