the way of answer, so she remained silent.

'Did you know that your father and my father were friends at Oxford?'
Lady Maud asked, after a little pause.

'Really?' Margaret was surprised.

'When they were undergrads. Your name is Donne, isn't it? Margaret
Donne? My father was called Foxwell then. That's our name, you know.
He didn't come into the title till his uncle died, a few years ago.'

'But I remember a Mr. Foxwell when I was a child,' said Margaret. 'He
came to see us at Oxford sometimes. Do you mean to say that he was
your father?'

'Yes. He is alive, you know--tremendously alive!--and he remembers you
as a little girl, and wants me to bring you to see him. Do you mind
very much? I told him I was to meet you this evening.'

'I should be very glad indeed,' said Margaret.

'He would come to see you,' said Lady Maud, rather apologetically,
'but he sprained his ankle the other day. He was chivvying a cat
that was after the pheasants at Creedmore--he's absurdly young, you
know--and he came down at some hurdles.'

'I'm so sorry! Of course I shall be delighted to go.'

'It's awfully good of you, and he'll be ever so pleased. May I come
and fetch you? When? To-morrow afternoon about three? Are you quite
sure you don't mind?'

Margaret was quite sure; for the prospect of seeing an old friend of
her father's, and one whom she herself remembered well, was pleasant
just then. She was groping for something she had lost, and the merest
thread was worth following.

'If you like I'll sing for him,' she said.

'Oh, he simply hates music!' answered Lady Maud, with unconscious
indifference to the magnificence of such an offer from the greatest
lyric soprano alive.

Margaret laughed in spite of herself.

'Do you hate music too?' she asked.

'No, indeed! I could listen to you for ever. But my father is quite
different. I believe he hears half a note higher with one ear than
with the other. At all events the effect of music on him is dreadful.
He behaves like a cat in a thunderstorm. If you want to please him,
talk to him about old bindings. Next to shooting he likes bindings
better than anything in the world--in fact he's a capital bookbinder
himself.'

At this juncture Mustapha Pasha's pale and spiritual face appeared
between the curtains of the small room, and he interrupted the
conversation by a single word.

'Bridge?'

Lady Maud was on her feet in an instant.

'Rather!'

'Do you play?' asked the Ambas