e serenely mistress of the situation than when, at
the moment of dispersal, detaching herself a little from the group about
the table, she turned with a smile and a graceful slant of the shoulders
to receive her cloak from Dorset.

The dinner had been protracted over Mr. Bry's exceptional cigars and a
bewildering array of liqueurs, and many of the other tables were empty;
but a sufficient number of diners still lingered to give relief to the
leave-taking of Mrs. Bry's distinguished guests. This ceremony was drawn
out and complicated by the fact that it involved, on the part of the
Duchess and Lady Skiddaw, definite farewells, and pledges of speedy
reunion in Paris, where they were to pause and replenish their wardrobes
on the way to England. The quality of Mrs. Bry's hospitality, and of the
tips her husband had presumably imparted, lent to the manner of the
English ladies a general effusiveness which shed the rosiest light over
their hostess's future. In its glow Mrs. Dorset and the Stepneys were
also visibly included, and the whole scene had touches of intimacy worth
their weight in gold to the watchful pen of Mr. Dabham.

A glance at her watch caused the Duchess to exclaim to her sister that
they had just time to dash for their train, and the flurry of this
departure over, the Stepneys, who had their motor at the door, offered to
convey the Dorsets and Miss Bart to the quay. The offer was accepted,
and Mrs. Dorset moved away with her husband in attendance. Miss Bart had
lingered for a last word with Lord Hubert, and Stepney, on whom Mr. Bry
was pressing a final, and still more expensive, cigar, called out: "Come
on, Lily, if you're going back to the yacht."

Lily turned to obey; but as she did so, Mrs. Dorset, who had paused on
her way out, moved a few steps back toward the table.

"Miss Bart is not going back to the yacht," she said in a voice of
singular distinctness.

A startled look ran from eye to eye; Mrs. Bry crimsoned to the verge of
congestion, Mrs. Stepney slipped nervously behind her husband, and
Selden, in the general turmoil of his sensations, was mainly conscious of
a longing to grip Dabham by the collar and fling him out into the street.

Dorset, meanwhile, had stepped back to his wife's side. His face was
white, and he looked about him with cowed angry eyes. "Bertha!--Miss
Bart . . . this is some misunderstanding . . . some mistake . . ."

"Miss Bart remains here," his wife rejoined incisivel