The Princess, led by Mr. Barringcourt, descended first, and half way down stopped to admire. “Which was the pirate, you or Mr. Todbrook?” said she. “I’m sure you carted off the plan of a cathedral, and the material too.” “That is an open secret,” replied he, laughing. “But his was the theft, not mine. I simply inherited what he had left. But he had gloomy taste. Now, were I building, I’d fix upon a little bungalow, a whitewashed place, with a world-wide garden for the summer-time.” The Princess was not of that simple nature that enjoys simplicity, but she delighted in anything odd, as she considered it, because it made her laugh. “Do you really mean to say you are philosopher enough to grow accustomed to things?” she asked. “Till I see a way of escape.” “And you see none from here?” The Princess had not such keen eyes as Rosalie; she was not fond of studying faces, except for what animal beauty they might possess. “None,” said he. “Although ’tis said Todbrook escaped by the back door.” “He died,” said she, and looked at him with a vague suspicion of horror in her eyes. She was of a superstitious nature. But he laughed. “You talk of death at a dance?” said he. “One might almost think, Princess, you were primitive, and scorned the guarded terms of civilisation.” The conversation had taken a turn not to her fancy. He had thrown a shadow over the brilliantly-lit supper-room. She shivered involuntarily, and looked about her petulantly, and said: “Are you quite sure this place isn’t damp?” “Not at all! Not a rheumatic dampness, anyway. Spirits do not count; they are above it.” Then their conversation ran into a lighter channel suited to the occasion, and the feast began right royally, when the plumed peacock was carried in, to be admired in death, a lasting tribute to its vanity. The band played, and the people laughed and feasted and talked. In the whole of Lucifram that night could not have been found a gayer or more brilliant company. CHAPTER XXXI MYSTERIES IN MARBLE HOUSE But there was one person who never came down to supper—at the right time, anyway—and that was Rosalie. She had strolled off alone to the picture-gallery, led to look again on that curious representation of the former master of Marble House. The silence as the last guest went down below made her heart beat a little faster. She listened to the last echoing laugh, and he seemed listening too. The slightly bending figure indeed betokened an attitude of close attention—almost the hidden smile of one who, listening, understands. The long line of pictures ran either side of her, each in itself a work of beauty. She remembered that day when Mariana had gone off to the east wing from here. To-night the east wing was closed. All this great glare of artificial light never traversed there. A heavy crimson curtain hid the polished door that led to it.