k!" Stepney exclaimed; and Lord
Hubert, dropping his single eye-glass, corroborated: "It's the
Sabrina--yes."

"So soon? They were to spend a month in Sicily," Mrs. Fisher observed.

"I guess they feel as if they had: there's only one up-to-date hotel in
the whole place," said Mr. Bry disparagingly.

"It was Ned Silverton's idea--but poor Dorset and Lily Bart must have
been horribly bored." Mrs. Fisher added in an undertone to Selden: "I do
hope there hasn't been a row."

"It's most awfully jolly having Miss Bart back," said Lord Hubert, in his
mild deliberate voice; and Mrs. Bry added ingenuously: "I daresay the
Duchess will dine with us, now that Lily's here."

"The Duchess admires her immensely: I'm sure she'd be charmed to have it
arranged," Lord Hubert agreed, with the professional promptness of the
man accustomed to draw his profit from facilitating social contacts:
Selden was struck by the businesslike change in his manner.

"Lily has been a tremendous success here," Mrs. Fisher continued, still
addressing herself confidentially to Selden. "She looks ten years
younger--I never saw her so handsome. Lady Skiddaw took her everywhere in
Cannes, and the Crown Princess of Macedonia had her to stop for a week at
Cimiez. People say that was one reason why Bertha whisked the yacht off
to Sicily: the Crown Princess didn't take much notice of her, and she
couldn't bear to look on at Lily's triumph."

Selden made no reply. He was vaguely aware that Miss Bart was cruising in
the Mediterranean with the Dorsets, but it had not occurred to him that
there was any chance of running across her on the Riviera, where the
season was virtually at an end. As he leaned back, silently contemplating
his filigree cup of Turkish coffee, he was trying to put some order in
his thoughts, to tell himself how the news of her nearness was really
affecting him. He had a personal detachment enabling him, even in moments
of emotional high-pressure, to get a fairly clear view of his feelings,
and he was sincerely surprised by the disturbance which the sight of the
Sabrina had produced in him. He had reason to think that his three months
of engrossing professional work, following on the sharp shock of his
disillusionment, had cleared his mind of its sentimental vapours. The
feeling he had nourished and given prominence to was one of thankfulness
for his escape: he was like a traveller so grateful for rescue from a
dangerous accident that at firs