ife--and _una tazza di te_. But we who are not
so--_comment dirai-je?_--so self-complete must rely on frivolous things
like _una buona cena_.'

'Don't believe in 'em,' reiterated the resolutionist; 'three
regular'----

'_Ah, c'est mauvais_,' gesticulated Madame Carlotti, who alternated
between Italian and French phrases in London, and kept her best English
for the Continent.

'Mr. Pyford,' put in Lady Durwent, descrying a storm on the yellow and
black horizon, 'has just written'----

'MR. H. STACKTON DUNCKLEY,' announced the butler, with an appropriate
note of _mysterioso_. Lady Durwent summoned a blush, and rose to meet
the ardent author, who was dressed in a characterless evening suit with
disconsolate legs, and whose chin was heavily powdered to conceal the
stubble of beard grown since morning.

'You have come,' she said softly and dramatically.

'I have,' said the writer, bowing low over her hand.

'I rely on you to be discreet,' she murmured.

'Eh?'

'Discreet,' she coquetted. 'People will talk.'

'Let them,' said Mr. Dunckley earnestly.

'Madame Carlotti, I think you know Mr. Dunckley--H. Stackton
Dunckley--and you too, Mrs. Le Roy Jennings; you clever people ought to
be friends at once.--And I want you to meet Mr. Pyford, _the_'----

'Hah d'ye do?'

'How are you?'

'Ro--splendid, thanks.'

'We were discussing,' said Lady Durwent--'discussing'----

'MR. AUSTIN SELWYN.'

Every one turned to see the guest of the evening, as the hostess rose
to meet him. He was a young man on the right side of thirty, with
dark, closely brushed hair that thinned slightly at the temples. He
was clean-shaven, and his light-brown eyes lay in a smiling setting of
quizzical good-humour. He was of rather more than medium height, with
well-poised shoulders; and though a firmness of lips and jaw gave a
suggestion of hardness, the engaging youthfulness of his eyes and a
hearty smile that crinkled the bridge of his nose left a pleasant
impression of frankness, mingled with a certain _naivete_.

'Mr. Selwyn,' said Lady Durwent, 'I knew you would want to meet some of
London's--I should say some of England's--accomplished people.'

'_Oime_! I am afraid that obleeterates me,' smiled Madame Carlotti,
whose social charm was rising fast at the sight of a good-looking
stranger.

'No, indeed, Lucia,' effused the hostess. 'To be the personification
of Italy in dreary London is more than an accomplishment; it--it'----