l, Mrs. Milbanke," he said genially, "what do you think of our
young friend? I believe he usually finds favour in ladies' eyes."

She glanced up.

"I think him very charming," she said candidly. "Who is he? Do you know
him well?"

Barnard smiled.

"I have known him since he was a boy at Eton. He is nephew of the
famous Earl of Deerehurst who, according to rumour, spends three
hundred a year on silk socks, and bathes every morning in scented
milk."

Clodagh made an exclamation of disgust.

"What an abominable person!"

Again Barnard smiled.

"Well, I don't quite know," he said tolerantly. "Rumour is generally
a yard or two in front of reality. Perhaps Deerehurst is rather a
mummified old _roue_; but then, you know, embalming is a clean process,
Mrs. Milbanke, before, as well as after, death. I sometimes wonder
whether Valentine won't put the family money to even less harmless use
if he ever succeeds to the title. He is next in the succession, but for
one feeble life."

Clodagh's eyes opened.

"Really!" she said. "I should never have connected him with so much
responsibility."

Barnard looked down at her.

"Responsibility!" he said. "I don't think I should call it
responsibility! But what has become of James?"

He paused, and glanced round the fast emptying hall.

As he did so, Milbanke hurried up, his manner newly interested, his
thin face flushed.

"Who do you think I have just seen, Clodagh?" he asked excitedly. "Mr.
Angelo Tombs--that interesting scientist who joined our party at Pisa
last year!"

Clodagh looked round.

"What?" she said in surprise. "The big, untidy-looking man, who had
written a book on something terribly unpronounceable?"

Milbanke nodded gravely.

"Yes," he said. "A most interesting and exhaustive work. I shall make a
point of congratulating him upon it directly we have finished dinner."

"And what about me?" Barnard eyed him quizzically.

"You! Oh, you must wait, David! You will understand that a man like Mr.
Tombs is not to be met with every day."

They were entering the dining-room as Milbanke spoke; and involuntarily
Barnard glanced from the precise, formal figure of his friend, to the
youthful, attractive form of his friend's wife.

"And you, Mrs. Milbanke?" he asked in a undertone. "Are you an equally
great enthusiast? Does the antique appeal very forcibly to you?"

As he put the question, he was conscious of its irony; but an
irrepressible curiosity forced h