he Professor's one and only social
vice.

Next came Commander Merrill in a hansom. This would be one of the very
few meetings that he could hope for with his lost beloved--as he now
sadly thought of her--before he put H.M.S. _Blazer_ into commission, and
so punctuality on his part was both natural and excusable. Then came a
few more carriages containing very nice people with whom we have here
but little concern; and then Miss Brenda, deeply regretting her
beautiful Napier, with her father and mother in a very smart Savoy
turn-out followed by a coronetted brougham drawn by a splendid pair of
black Orloffs. This was followed by an equally smart dog-cart driven by
a rather slightly-built but well set-up young man with a light
moustache, bronzed skin, and brilliant blue eyes. He was good-looking,
but if his features had been absolutely plain he could never have looked
commonplace, for this was Lord Lester Leighton, son of the Earl of
Kyneston, and twenty generations of unblemished descent had made him the
aristocrat that he was.

Nitocris did not like pompous announcements by servants, and so she
received her guests, who were all acquaintances or friends, in the
great porch through which many a brilliant presence had passed, and had
two maids waiting inside to see to the wants of the ladies, and their
own coachman and a couple of grooms to attend to matters outside.

Merrill was made as happy as possible by a bright smile, a real
hand-clasp instead of the usual Society paw-waggle, and instructions to
go and make himself agreeable and useful. Brenda also received a hearty
"shake"--Nitocris did not believe in kissing in public--and when the
Professor and Mrs Huysman had gone in, she whispered:

"I suppose that's the Prince's brougham. You must wait here, dear, and
do the introductions. You're responsible, you know."

Brenda assented with a nod and a smile, as the brougham drew up and the
smart tiger jumped down and opened the door. The Prince got out, and was
followed by Phadrig the Adept. As she looked at the two men, Nitocris
felt as though a wave of cold air had suddenly enveloped her whole
being--body and soul.

"Niti, this is our friend, Prince Oscar Oscarovitch, whom you have been
kind enough to let me invite by proxy. Prince, this is Miss Nitocris
Marmion."

Of course all the world knew of Oscar Oscarovitch, the modern Skobeleff,
the lineal descendant of Ivan the Terrible, the crystal-brained,
steel-willed man