came the
pleasant murmuring of talk and laughter.

As the little party stepped into the radius of this light, a stately
personage came forward deferentially; and, recognising Deerehurst, made
a profound bow.

The old nobleman nodded amiably, as to an acquaintance of long
standing, and, drawing the man aside, addressed him in French.

The explanation was brief, and almost at once Deerehurst turned back to
his companions.

"Come, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "Our friend Abbati proves amenable to
persuasion. He will give us his prettiest room--though we are
unexpected guests."

Clodagh stepped forward with eager curiosity.

"I never thought a restaurant could be like this," she said.

"Very few of them are, Mrs. Milbanke," murmured Barnard, close behind
her. "The usual restaurant is an ostentatious place of white enamel,
palms, and lights, where a hundred tongues are vainly endeavouring to
drown a band. This little corner will scarcely outlive another season.
It's too perfect--too quiet to find favour with the crowd. It was
opened under the patronage--rather, at the suggestion--of Prince Menof,
a sybarite millionaire temporarily out of sorts with Paris. But now
Paris smiles once more; Menof has wearied of Venice; and poor Abbati
begins to tremble."

Clodagh looked round.

"But could anything so exquisite be a failure?"

"Easily, my dear lady! People like to eat their expensive dinners where
others can comment on their extravagance! It's a very vulgar world!"

The three men laughed; and Clodagh, slightly distressed, slightly
puzzled, stepped through the wide hall to the room that Deerehurst
indicated.

It was a small chamber, long and narrow in shape. The walls were
panelled in faded brocade, and the lights were shrouded in silk of some
soft hue; the floor was covered with a carpet in which wreathed roses
formed the chief design; and the furniture consisted of one oval table,
four beautiful old chairs, and a couple of ancient French mirrors. As
Deerehurst stepped forward to relieve Clodagh of her cloak, four
waiters entered noiselessly; and almost immediately dinner was served.

It was a dinner such as Prince Menof would have delighted in. There was
nothing tedious, nothing monotonous in the six or seven courses that
comprised its menu; each stimulated and gratified the appetite, without
a hint of satiety. It was an Epicurean feast. And it was interesting to
study the varying ways in which the guests responded