There we stood, the three of us, two men and a woman, murmuring nice artificialities, bowing and smirking in the glare of a London drawing-room, while in an Italian garden, at that hour, three others, two women and a man, were talking of Heaven knows what topic, which, nevertheless, was indissolubly bound up with our trivial discourse. For a fleeting instant I had a glimpse of some strong, imperishable, intangible bond which held together the hidden things of life. Then I heard Nora Cazenove’s aristocratic accents. “Soon I shall be relieved from my present duty. Then you and I must have a nice long talk.” So I passed on with the crowd. CHAPTER XVIII THE PROBLEM TAKES SHAPE There are certain mortals, I suppose, who take delight in “At Homes,” receptions, musicales, and the rest of the social devices which enable fashionable folk to meet of evenings and learn the latest scandal. Personally, I would pass an hour far more agreeably in a fever hospital, provided the resident doctor were a good fellow, and not too busy to smoke a pipe with me. Hence, because of the unusual transactions of that memorable night, the proceedings at Sandilands’ house stand out in my mind in quite cameo-like precision as contrasted with other similar gatherings I have attended. Nor was this result achieved by meeting notable personages. There was the same setting of tow-headed fiddlers and stout sopranos--judicious artistes who earn a bank manager’s annual salary in twenty minutes--the same well-bred insolence on the part of some, the same toadying by others, the same ruthless incivility in the supper rooms by all, that may be seen at any like festival in the West End of London any night during the season. But, as shall be revealed speedily, the unrehearsed incidents of this particular society comedy were such as cut notches in the memory. I met a man with a grievance. He insisted on telling me why the Government had denied him the poet-laureateship. That was a safe topic. Politeness demanded an occasional “Dear me!” or “You don’t say so!” from me: he did the rest. From the safe anchorage of his eloquence I was able, at leisure, to watch and, to a certain extent, sum up, Nora Cazenove. Her genealogy, briefly sketched by the older Grier, partly accounted for certain deficiencies in her. It was reasonable to assume that her mother was a beautiful woman, of extraordinary acuteness within a somewhat narrow sphere. Like the girl in the ballad, her face was her fortune, and she deemed herself well paid, I doubt not, when she bartered her good looks and faultless form for a title and a big annual rent-roll.