that it would be folly to smile vacantly at her presumed mistake.

Some glint of annoyance must have leaped to his eyes, for the lively
countess glanced around with a mimic fright that testified to her
skill as an actress.

"Good gracious!" she whispered, "have I given you away? I couldn't
guess you were here under a _nom de voyage_--now, could I?--when that
telegram has been staring at everybody for hours."

"You have misinterpreted my amazement, Lady Porthcawl," he said,
spurred into self-possession by the hint at an intrigue. "I could not
believe that time would turn back even for a pretty woman. You look
younger than ever, though I have not seen you for----"

"Oh, hush!" she cried. "Don't spoil your nice speech by counting
years. When did you arrive in England? Are you alone--really? You've
grown quite a man in your jungles. Will you come to the lounge? I
want ever so much to have a long talk with you. Mr. Ducrot is
there--the financier, you know--but I have left him safely anchored
alongside Maud Devar--a soft-furred old pussie who is clawing me now
behind my back, I am sure. Have you ever met her? Wiggy Devar she was
christened in Monte, because an excited German leaned over her at the
tables one night and things happened to her coiffure. And to show you
how broad-minded I am, I'll get her to bring downstairs the sweetest
and daintiest American ingenue you'd find between here and Chicago,
even if you went by way of Paris. Cynthia Vanrenen is her name,
daughter of _the_ Vanrenen. He made, not a pile, but a pyramid, out of
Milwaukees. She is _it_--a pukka Gibson girl, quite ducky, with the
dearest bit of an accent, and Mamma Devar is gadding around with her
in a mo-car. Do come!"

Medenham was able to pick and choose where he listed in answering this
hail of words.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said, "but the telegram I have just received
affects all my plans. I must hurry away this instant. When will you be
in town? Then I shall call, praying meanwhile that there may be no
Ducrots or Devars there to blight a glorious gossip. If you bring me
up to date as to affairs in Park Lane I'll reciprocate about the giddy
equator. How--or perhaps I ought to say where--is Porthcawl?"

"In China," snapped her ladyship, fully alive to Medenham's polite
evasion of her blandishments.

"By gad," he laughed, "that is a long way from Bournemouth. Well,
good-bye. Keep me a date in Clarges Street."

"Clarges Street is off the ma