the world; Lord Alfred Craydon, thin, high church and political, who loved pretty women but receded farther and farther from marriage as the years spun by; and Lady Twickenham, a French _poupee_; and Julian Lamberhurst, the composer, who looked as if he had grown up to his six foot four in one night, like the mustard seed; and Hilary Lane, the friend of poets; and--how many more! For Dindie Ackroyde loved to gather a crowd for lunch, and had a sort of physical love of noise and human complications. At the far end of the room there was a section which was raised a few inches above the rest. Here stood two Steinway grand pianos, tail to tail, their dark polished cases shining soberly in the pale light of November. There were some deep settees on this species of dais, and, looking towards it, over the heads of the crowd in the lower part of the room, Lady Sellingworth saw Craven again. He was sitting beside a pretty girl, whom Lady Sellingworth did not know, and talking. His face looked hard and bored, but he was leaning towards the girl as if trying to seem engrossed, intent, on the conversation and on her. Francis Braybrooke came up. Lady Sellingworth was busy, greeting and being greeted. Once more she made part of the regiment. But the ranks were broken. There was no review order here. Only for an instant had she been aware of formality, of the “eyes right” atmosphere--when she had entered the room. Then the old voices hummed about her. And she saw the well-known and experienced eyes examining her. And she had to listen and to answer, to be charming, to “hold her own.” “I’m putting Alick Craven next to you at lunch, Adela. I know you and he are pals. He’s over there with Lily Bright.” “And who is Lily Bright?” said Lady Sellingworth in her most offhand way. “A dear little New Englander, Knickerbocker to the bone.” She turned away composedly to meet another guest. Francis Braybrooke began to talk to Lady Sellingworth, and almost immediately Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Birchington joined them. “How marvellous you look, Adela!” said Lady Wrackley, staring with her birdlike eyes. “You will cut us all out. I must go to Geneva. Have you heard about Beryl? But of course you have. She was so delighted at coming into a fortune that she rushed away to Rose Tree Gardens to celebrate the event with a man without even waiting till she had got her mourning. Didn’t she, Minnie?” Francis Braybrooke was looking shocked. “I cannot believe that Miss Van Tuyn--” he began. But Mrs. Birchington interrupted him. “But I was there!” she said. “I beg your pardon!” said Braybrooke. “It was the very day the death of her father was in the evening papers. I came back from the club with the paper in my hand, and met Beryl Van Tuyn getting out of the lift in Rose Tree Gardens with the man who lives opposite to me. She absolutely looked embarrassed.” “Impossible!” said Lady Wrackley. “She couldn’t!” “I assure you she did! But she introduced me to him.”