She was not gay at lunch. Usually she was a most welcome member of any such gathering as this. Her sayings were pointed, she entered fully into the spirit of the hour, her wit adorned the charm of her personality, and she was universally popular and voted "good fun" in the comprehensive epitome of her associates. This was the highest praise they knew, and they gave it her without stint. To-day the party fell flat--there was no doubt about it. The radiance of the early morning had given place to a heat which became terribly oppressive, and the sky was overclouded. Thunder was in the air, and London awaited a storm. The electric lights began to glow in the restaurant. Lady Linquest did her best to rouse her niece to gaiety, but her efforts were futile. The old man who was entertaining them grew sulky, and Lord Rollington drank glass after glass of champagne. The beautiful actress was frankly bored, and became more cynical and bitter with every scandalous story she told. Only Mr. Duveen preserved his equanimity. He ate and drank and purred with secure complaisance. It was his rôle in life. Ever since he had been a little lick-trencher fag at Eton he had been thus. It was said by his friends in society--after his back was turned--that on one occasion, having discovered the Earl of ---- kissing his wife, he had murmured an apology, saying that he had come to find his cigarette case, and hurriedly retired from the room. This, no doubt, was scandal and untrue, but it showed the estimation in which he was generally held. Lucy knew this unpleasant story--Lady Linquest had told her. She thought of it as she watched the man pouring _mandarin_ into his coffee. Once more she felt the shrinking and repulsion that had come over her more than three hours ago. She knew, or once had known, her Dante. She had had but little time for anything but frothy reading during the last year or two, but once she had kept up her Italian. A passage from the _Inferno_ came into her brain now,--a long-forgotten passage: "Quest i non hanno speranza di morte, E la lor cicca vita è tanto bassa Che invidiosi son d'ogni altra sorte." She saw the people of whom the Florentine spoke before her now, the people for whom the bitterest fate of all had been reserved,--these who "have no hope of death, and whose blind life so meanly drags that they are envious of every other fate." Before she left Park Lane, it had been arranged that the small brougham should call for her at the restaurant, and take her on to Hornham. Her luggage was small. This smart society girl was going to take her plunge into the great London _Hinterland_ with a single trunk, like any little governess driving to her new situation, where she would learn how bitter the bread of another may taste, and how steep are the stairs in the house of a stranger. The carriage arrived just as lunch was over, and she left all of them with immeasurable relief.