will readily find excuses, I
hope. I am very sorry."

Miss Arkwright's eyes looked anxiously upon them. When had they met and
where? How odd that he had never mentioned it once! She must hear the
story of their meeting; and "rude"--what did he mean by that?

Lionel smiled and referred her to the ambassador. He, genuinely anxious
to atone for a foolish contretemps, did not spare himself in the
recital. Miss Arkwright laughed gaily over the tale.

"Men are so silly," she said merrily as he finished. "Fancy getting
angry over a game of golf! And all by yourself, too! If there had been
some one to vent your rage upon----"

"Alas, there was!" said Mr. Beckett, with a whimsical glance at Lionel,
who, despite himself and his suspicions, felt drawn toward the enemy. It
was a friendly party of three that walked toward the summer-house.

On the whole, tea was a successful meal. Miss Arkwright led the
conversation--monopolized it, almost; hardly pausing for replies,
agreement, or contradiction. She looked splendid, her color heightened
with pleasure, excitement, or kindred emotions. Lionel, who had studied
her attentively for no short period, had never seen her in such a mood.
She was gay and charming, unusually ready with the froth of sparkling
small-talk. Any one meeting her for the first time would have believed
her a clever _flaneuse_, a butterfly with brains and beauty, living
solely for the moment. But Lionel, who knew her better and had some
secret knowledge of her possibilities for intrigue and conspiracy, found
himself questioning. Was she nervous? And if so, of what?

Mr. Beckett had little opportunity to display his social gifts. The
abilities, doubtless great to secure his present office, perforce lay
hidden. But the few sentences he uttered, by way of confirmation or its
opposite, were enough to show him as a man of original thought, some
wit, and in close touch with the affairs of nations. An old man, he bore
his years lightly; though the mask of frivolity he assumed out of
compliment to his environment was occasionally dropped in moments of
repose. At such moments he appeared tired--not physically, but of
mundane trivialities.

At last Winifred rose. "You know my routine," she said brightly to
Lionel: "I must vanish speedily. No! don't move. Stay here and smoke. I
shall escort Mr. Beckett----"

"You still, then----" began the ambassador, rising at the hint. She
interrupted him bruskly.

"Still--still--sti