m."

"Of course I should," she answered, "only I hope that he is more
comprehensible than his book."

"I have never met him myself," Saton answered, "but I know that he has
a letter to me. He will come to my house, I believe, and if he follows
out his usual custom, he will scarcely leave it while he stays in
England. I shall ask a few people to talk one night. I cannot attempt
anything conventional. It does not seem to me to be an occasion for
anything of the sort. If you will come, I will let you know the night
and the time."

She hesitated for a moment.

"And if you should come," he continued, "even though it be the
evening, please wear an old dress and hat. Naudheim himself seldom
appears in a collar. Any social gathering of any sort is loathsome to
him. He will talk only amongst those whom he believes are his
friends."

"I will come, of course," Pauline answered. "It is good of you to
think of me."

"He may speak to you," Saton continued. "He takes curious fancies
sometimes to address a perfect stranger, and talk to them intimately.
Remember that though he lives in Switzerland, and has a German name,
he is really an Englishman. Nothing annoys him more than to be spoken
to in any other language."

"I will remember," Pauline said.

There was a moment's silence. Saton felt that he was expected to go.
Yet there was something in her manner which he could not altogether
understand, some nervousness, which seemed absolutely foreign to her
usual demeanour. He took up his hat reluctantly.

"You are busy to-day?" he asked.

"I am always busy," she answered. "Perhaps it is because I am so lazy.
I never do anything, so there is always so much to do."

He made the plunge, speaking without any of his usual
confidence--hurriedly, almost indistinctly.

"Won't you come and have some luncheon with me at the Berkeley, or
anywhere you please? I feel like talking to-day. I feel that I am a
little nearer the first law. I want to speak of it to someone."

She hesitated, and he saw her fingers twitch.

"Thank you," she said, "I am afraid I can't. If you like, you can come
and have luncheon here. I have one or two people coming in."

"Thank you," he said. "I shall be glad to come. About half-past one, I
suppose?"

"From that to two," she answered. "My friends drop in at any time."

He passed out into the street, not altogether satisfied with his
visit, and yet not dissatisfied. He had an instinctive feeling that in
s