“My dear lady,” she whispered, “that’s the most lovely dress I ever saw in my life! Where _do_ you get your things? And however do you manage to look so delightful in them?” Anne laughed. “Let me return the compliment. You look charming, Madge.” Mrs. Dakin blushed with pleasure, as she turned to shake hands with Mrs. Carfax. “We are waiting for another guest,” said Miss Page, sitting down in one of the big, chintz-covered chairs. “Monsieur Fontenelle, who, as I dare say you know, has just been made President of the International Art Congress.” Dr. Dakin looked up quickly from the examination of an eighteenth-century fan, which he recognized as a new treasure in a cabinet filled with ivories, enamel snuff-boxes, old lace, old treasures of all kinds. “Really?” he exclaimed. “That’s most interesting. _The_ Monsieur Fontenelle, in fact?” “He’s a very old friend of mine,” said Anne. “In England for the opening of the show next week, of course?” “Yes. He’s been staying for a couple of days at The Chase, and as he goes to London to-morrow I asked him to join us this evening.” To none of Anne’s visitors but the doctor was the Frenchman’s name significant. Dymfield was not interested in the world of art. Very few of its inhabitants had ever heard of the International Art Congress, and even if they had, it would have conveyed nothing to their minds. Nevertheless, a tremor of excitement and curiosity passed over the faces of Mrs. Carfax and Mrs. Dakin. Strangers at Dymfield were rare, and a visitor who was staying at The Chase, as the guest of Lord Farringchurch was on that account alone, a distinguished if not an alarming personality. “A Frenchman!” exclaimed Mrs. Carfax. “I hope he speaks English?” she added below her breath. “Oh, perfectly,” Anne assured her, as the door opened. “Monsieur Fontenelle!” Burks, who had frequently accompanied her mistress in foreign travel, delivered the name with commendable swing and correctness of accent. The man who entered looked considerably younger than his forty-seven years. Slight, still elegant in figure, his face possessed the distinction of clear-cut features, combined with an expression which only the charm of his smile saved from a suspicion of arrogance. His hair, a little white on the temples, was thick and slightly wavy. His blue eyes, keen above a hawk-like nose, gleamed every now and then with a trace of irony; that irony which has become habitual, the recognized medium through which its possessor views the world. A shrewd observer would have guessed the character represented by such a face to be difficult and complex. Instinctively one knew that François Fontenelle would be no very easy man to thwart; one guessed also that he might be a man apt to form his own rules of conduct, to carve his own path in life, without too much consideration for the convenience or the paths of others.