elpless manner of one, and was always at heel with Polly. But
he was a Titan financially, and he was signing his name now to
munitions-contracts as big as national debts.

Marie Louise was summoned from the presence of the Widdicombes by one
of Lady Webling's most mysterious glances, to meet a new-comer whom
Lady Webling evidently regarded as a special treasure. Lady Webling
was as wide as a screen, and she could always form a sort of alcove in
front of her by turning her back on the company. She made such a nook
now and, taking Marie Louise's hand in hers, put it in the hand of the
tall and staring man whose very look Marie Louise found invasive. His
handclasp was somehow like an illicit caress.

How strange it is that with so much modesty going about, people should
be allowed to wear their hands naked! The fashion of the last few
years compelling the leaving off of gloves was not really very nice.
Marie Louise realized it for the first time. Her fastidious right hand
tried to escape from the embrace of the stranger's fingers, but they
clung devil-fishily, and Lady Webling's soft cushion palm was there
conniving in the abduction. And her voice had a wheedling tone:

"This is my dear Nicky I have spoken of so much--Mr. Easton, you
know."

"Oh yes," said Marie Louise.

"Be very nice to him," said Lady Webling. "He is taking you out to
dinner."

At that moment the butler appeared, solemn as a long-awaited priest,
and there was such a slow crystallization as follows a cry of "Fall
in!" to weary soldiers. The guests were soon in double file and on the
march to the battlefield with the cooks.

Nicky Easton still had Marie Louise's hand; he had carried it up into
the crook of his right arm and kept his left hand over it for guard. A
lady can hardly wrench loose from such an attention, but Marie Louise
abhorred it.

Nicky treated her as a sort of possession, and she resented his
courtesies. He began too soon with compliments. One hates to have even
a bunch of violets jabbed into one's nose with the command, "Smell!"

She disliked his accent, too. There was a Germanic something in it as
faint as the odor of high game. It was a time when the least hint of
Teutonism carried the stench of death to British nostrils.

Lady Webling and Sir Joseph were known to be of German birth, and
their phrases carried the tang, but Sir Joseph had become a
naturalized citizen ages ago and had won respect and affection a
decade back. H