one with rather a feeble face. This was Lord
George Sandal, the pigeon Hay was plucking, and although he had charming
manners and an assumption of worldly wisdom, he was evidently one of
those who had come into the world saddled and bridled for other folk's
riding.

A third lady was also present, who called herself Aurora Qian, and Hay
informed his friend in a whisper that she was an actress. Paul then
remembered that he had seen her name in the papers as famous in light
comedy. She was pretty and kittenish, with fluffy hair and an eternal
smile. It was impossible to imagine a greater contrast to the massive
firmness of Mrs. Krill than the lively, girlish demeanor of the little
woman, yet Paul had an instinct that Miss Qian, in spite of her
profession and odd name and childish giggle, was a more shrewd person
than she looked. Everyone was bright and merry and chatty: all save Maud
Krill who smiled and fanned herself in a statuesque way. Hay paid her
great attention, and Paul knew very well that he intended to marry the
silent woman for her money. It would be hardly earned he thought, with
such a firm-looking mother-in-law as Mrs. Krill would certainly prove to
be.

The dinner was delightful, well cooked, daintily served, and leisurely
eaten. A red-shaded lamp threw a rosy light on the white cloth, the
glittering crystal and bright silver. The number of diners was less than
the Muses, and more than the Graces, and everyone laid himself or
herself out to make things bright. And again Maud Krill may be
mentioned as an exception. She ate well and held her tongue, merely
smiling heavily when addressed. Paul, glancing at her serene face across
the rosy-hued table, wondered if she really was as calm as she looked,
and if she really lacked the brain power her mother seemed to possess.

"I am glad to see you here, Beecot," said Hay, smiling.

"I am very glad to be here," said Paul, adapting himself to
circumstances, "especially in such pleasant company."

"You don't go out much," said Lord George.

"No, I am a poor author who has yet to win his spurs."

"I thought of being an author myself," said the young man, "but it was
such a fag to think about things."

"You want your material supplied to you perhaps," put in Mrs. Krill in a
calm, contemptuous way.

"Oh, no! If I wrote stories like the author johnnies I'd rake up my
family history. There's lots of fun there."

"Your family mightn't like it," giggled Miss Qian. "