iously set themselves to discover a subject of conversation
more worthy of their steel than either the evening _communique_ or the
port. The three alien pianists had reduced themselves to a Polish
sculptor, an Irish novelist and a Scottish portrait-painter. By sitting
next to the journalist, Eric saved himself the effort of talking and
recuperated at leisure after the exhausting boredom of dinner. He had
looked forward to seeing Barbara again, feeling disappointment that she
was not in the big shadowy drawing-room when he arrived--(but she would
come any moment)--and a little proprietory thrill of pleasure when she
walked straight across the room to him. But her manner, her use of his
Christian name--(and Mrs. Shelley knew that they had first met less than
twenty-four hours ago)--her clear-voiced, unabashed habit of flirtation,
the parting smile at the door. . . .

One of his neighbours interrupted the ill-humoured train of thought by
introducing himself in a pleasant, soft brogue.

"Er, me name's Sullivan, Mr. Lane. Ye know Priestley, I expect?
Priestley and I have been concocting a great scheme. I have a new book
coming out in the spring and I'm wanting a girl's head for the
frontispiece. Well, since I saw Lady Barbara to-night, there's only one
head that will do for me. And Priestley's the one man to do it.
Charcoal, ye know; a single sitting would be enough. Do ye think she
would be willing?"

Eric smiled to hide his impatience.

"Why not ask her?" he suggested. "She's fairly well-known, of course;
everybody'd recognize it."

"Ah, don't distress yourself! The book's symbolical," Sullivan
explained vaguely. "I was wondering now, would ye sound her? Priestley
and I don't know her, ye see. And, as ye're a friend----"

"We'll ask her, when we get upstairs," Eric answered.

Three tentative chords broke the silence overhead, and a woman's voice
began to sing.

"_Butterfly_," the journalist jerked out as though he were in the last
heat of a competition. "Second act, isn't it? Where Madame Butterfly
hears that Pinkerton's ship has been sighted. I never think
_Butterfly's_ as bad as some of the high-brows try to make out. If you
_like_ that sort of thing, I mean," he added prudently.

Eric held up his hand.

"_Please!_ I want to hear this."

"_One fine day, we'll notice
A thread of smoke arising on the sea
In the far horizon,
And then the ship appearing:--
Then the trim white vessel