“I DON’T UNDERSTAND English titles,” she said.
“No?” I said.
“No,” she said. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than curling up with a good English book, but the titles always puzzle me. That New York paper called you the Earl of Havershot. Is an Earl the same as a Duke?”
“Not quite. Dukes are a bit higher up.”
“Is it the same as a Viscount?”
“No. Viscounts are a bit lower down. We Earls rather sneer at Viscounts. One is pretty haughty with them, poor devils.”
“What is your wife? A Countess?”
“I haven’t got a wife. If I had she would be a Countess.”
A sort of far-away look came into her eyes.
“The Countess of Havershot,” she murmured.
“That’s right. The Countess of Havershot.”
“What is Havershot? The place where you live?”
“No. I don’t quite know where the Havershot comes in. The family doss-house is at Biddleford, in Norfolk.”
“Is it a very lovely place?”
“Quite a goodish sort of shack.”
“Battlements?”
“Lots of battlements.”
“And deer?”
“Several deer.”
“I love deer.”
“Me, too. I’ve met some very decent deer.”