"What's the trouble?" he inquired. "Aren't these gentlemen correctly ticketed?"

      "Some are not. That suit of gilded mail is not Spanish; it's German. It is not very difficult to make such a mistake sometimes."

      Steam heat had been put in, but the vast hall was chilly except close to the long ranks of oxidised pipes lining the walls. They stood a moment, leaning against them and looking out across the place, all glittering with the mail-clad figures.

      "I've easily three weeks' work before me among these mounted figures alone, to say nothing of the men on foot and the trophies and artillery," she said. "Do you know it is going to be rather expensive for you, Mr. Desboro?"

      This did not appear to disturb him.

      "Because," she went on, "a great many mistakes have been made in labelling, and some mistakes in assembling the complete suits of mail and in assigning weapons. For example, that mounted man in front of you is wearing tilting armour and a helmet that doesn't belong to it. That's a childish mistake."

      "We'll put the proper lid on him," said Desboro. "Show it to me and I'll put it all over him now."

      "It's up there aloft with the trophies, I think—the fifth group."

      "There's a ladder on wheels for a closer view of the weapons. Shall I trundle it in?"

      He went out into the hallway and presently came back pushing a clanking extension ladder with a railed top to it. Then he affixed the crank and began to grind until it rose to the desired height.

      "All I ask of you is not to tumble off it," he said. "Do you promise?"

      She promised with mock seriousness: "Because I need all my brains, you see."

      "You've a lot of 'em, haven't you, Miss Nevers?"

      "No, not many."

      He shrugged: "I wonder, then, what a quantitative analysis of mine might produce."

      She said: "You are as clever as you take the trouble to be—" and stopped herself short, unwilling to drift into personalities.

      "It's the interest that is lacking in me," he said, "—or perhaps the incentive."

      She made no comment.

      "Don't you think so?"

      "I don't know."

      "—And don't care," he added.

      She flushed, half turned in protest, but remained silent.

      "I beg your pardon," he said, "I didn't mean to force your interest in myself. Tell me, is there anything I can do for your comfort before I go? And shall I go and leave you to abstruse and intellectual meditation, or do I disturb you by tagging about at your heels?"

      His easy, light tone relieved her. She looked around her at the armed figures:

      "You don't disturb me. I was trying to think where to begin. To-morrow I'll bring up some reference books——"

      "Perhaps you can find what you want in my grandfather's library. I'll show you where it is when you are ready."

      "I wonder if he has Grenville's monograph on Spanish and Milanese mail?"

      "I'll see."

      He went away and remained for ten minutes. She was minutely examining the sword belonging to a rather battered suit of armour when he returned with the book.

      "You see," she said, "you are useful. I did well to suggest that you remain here. Now, look, Mr. Desboro. This is German armour, and here is a Spanish sword of a different century along with it! That's all wrong, you know. Antonius was the sword-maker; here is his name on the hexagonal, gilded iron hilt—'Antonius Me Fecit'."

      "You'll put that all right," he said confidently. "Won't you?"

      "That's why you asked me here, isn't it?"

      He may have been on the point of an indiscreet rejoinder, for he closed his lips suddenly and began to examine another sword. It belonged to the only female equestrian figure in the collection—a beautifully shaped suit of woman's armour, astride a painted war-horse, the cuirass of Milan plates.

      "The Countess of Oroposa," he said. "It was her peculiar privilege, after the Count's death, to ride in full armour and carry a naked sword across her knees when the Spanish Court made a solemn entry into cities. Which will be about all from me," he added with a laugh. "Are you ready for luncheon?"

      "Quite, thank you. But you said that you didn't know much about this collection. Let me see that sword, please."

      He drew it from its scabbard and presented the hilt. She took it, studied it, then read aloud the device in verse:

      "'Paz Comigo Nunca Veo Y Siempre Guera Dese.'" ("There is never peace with me; my desire is always war!")

      Her clear young voice repeating the old sword's motto seemed to ring a little through the silence—as though it were the clean-cut voice of the blade itself.

      "What a fine motto," he said guilelessly. "And you interpret it as though it were your own."

      "I like the sound of it. There is no compromise in it."

      "Why not assume it for your own? 'There is never peace with me; my desire is always war!' Why not adopt it?"

      "Do you mean that such a militant motto suits me?" she asked, amused, and caught the half-laughing, half malicious glimmer in his eyes, and knew in an instant he had divined her attitude toward himself, and toward to her own self, too—war on them both, lest they succumb to the friendship that threatened. Silent, preoccupied, she went back with him through the armoury, through the hallway, into a rather commonplace dining-room, where a table had already been laid for two.

      Desboro jingled a small silver bell, and presently luncheon was announced. She ate with the healthy appetite of the young, and he pretended to. Several cats and dogs of unaristocratic degree came purring and wagging about the table, and he indulged them with an impartiality that interested her, playing no favourites, but allotting to each its portion, and serenely chastising the greedy.

      "What wonderful impartiality!" she ventured.