“How wonderfully like you Frederic is, Mr Brood.” Then she added: “Do you know, I've never noticed it until to-night? It's really remarkable.” “Indeed,” Brood responded somewhat icily. “Don't you think so, Mr Brood?” “No, I do not, Miss Janey,” said he distinctly. “Maisie Gunning was speaking of it just a few minutes ago,” went on the girl, unimpressed. “She says you are very much alike when you are--are------” here she foundered in sudden confusion. “Intoxicated?” he inquired, without a smile. She blushed painfully. “No, no! When you are angry. There, I suppose I shouldn't have said it, but------” “It is a most gratifying discovery,” said he, and turned to speak to Mrs Desmond. He did not take his gaze from Frederic's white, set face, however; and, despite the fact that he knew the girl had uttered an idle commonplace, he was annoyed to find himself studying the features of Matilde's boy with an interest that seemed almost laughable when he considered it later on. His guests found much to talk about in the room. He was soon being dragged from one object to another and ordered to reveal the history, the use, and the nature of countless things that obviously were intended to be just what they seemed; such as rugs, shields, lamps, and so forth. He was ably assisted by Messrs Riggs and Dawes, who lied prodigiously in a frenzy of rivalry. “What a perfectly delightful Buddha!” cried Miss Janey, stopping in front of the idol. “How perfectly lovely he is--or is it a she, Mr Brood?” He did not reply at once. His eyes were on Frederic and Yvonne, who had come together at last and were conversing earnestly apart from the rest of the group. He observed that Lydia was standing quite alone near the table, idly handling a magazine. To the best of his recollection, Frederic had scarcely spoken to the girl during the evening. “This is where I work and play and dream, Miss Janey, and practise the ogre's art. It is a forbidden chamber, my sanctuary,”--with a glance at the idol--“and here is where I sometimes chop off pretty young women's heads and hang them from the window-ledge as a warning to all other birds of prey.” Miss Janey laughed gleefully, attracting Yvonne's attention. Then she sang out across the room: “Your husband says he is an ogre. Is he?” Yvonne came languidly toward them. “My husband manages to keep me in his enchanted castle without chains and padlocks, and that is saying a great deal in this day and age, my dear. Would you call him an ogre after that?” “Perhaps it is the old story of the fairy queen and the ogre.” “You may be sure I'd be an ogre if there was no other way of keeping you, my dear,” said Brood. There was something in his voice that caused her to look up into his face quickly.