"Yes... that is indicated by the ring contained within the eye," murmured the Count. "One of your paternal ancestors will have obtained that device in the wars before the black gate of Mordor, ere the Valards drowned it in cheap champagne. That takes you back to the end of the Second Age, which is quite delightful."
Réginard was in train of saying something modest, when the Count de Pérégrin appeared. He was about 60, and thus middle-aged, and wore a uniform as impressive as it was ugly, exemplary as it was of the ineradicable bad taste of the Toucs.
"Father," said Réginard. "I have the honour of introducing the Count of Monte Fato, my liege-lord and saviour."
"Monsieur is welcome among us," said M. de Pérégrin. "He has rendered to our house, in preserving its only heir, a service worthy to stand beside that which Félagond did for Béren in poisoning the cognac of the wargs with the warm beer of the Snowmen."
