Marigold sat and listened; it scarcely seemed to her they were speaking of herself--she heard as a rather interested third person might, with an occasional deeper prick. She noticed a sudden interest come into the other’s eye--as again he looked across at her, his mouth smiling, his eyes not troubling to. “Asked gold of you? Ah! I forgot. Your position makes it quite respectable for her to do so.” “Oh, quite. It was not on those grounds I objected. Though I believe she is not the one to have discriminated as to whom she asked. Any man catching her eye would have been met with the same request.” “I hardly agree with you--hardly agree with you. Why did she want gold?” “The old tale--mother dead--father drunk--a large family.” “There are none here beside her to-day, I notice.” “Now you mention it, I notice also. Pierman, just step across to the young girl yonder with red hair, and tell her I wish to speak to her when the meal is over.” Marigold noticed the smile had travelled for a moment to the other’s eyes--then, as if it never had been there, it vanished. She received the message calmly--once in a day to have shown the white feather, or even a vestige of it, was quite enough for her. She laughed to herself, enjoying the situation--a certain something running riot in her blood. She with such a saintly face--and prayers night and morning. The High Priest had retired to the upper end of the hall; soon grace was said, and the satisfied crowd prepared to depart in order. Then Pierman, the attendant, came once more and conducted Marigold away from that part of the building altogether, through baize doors and long stone corridors, till the smell of dinner and diners had disappeared through open windows and doorways, and only what was spotlessly clean and beautiful met the eye and nose. Then, when they came to the large library, Pierman withdrew. Marigold found herself in a vast chamber with wide open windows opening on grass-covered cloisters. Two secretaries sat writing at oaken tables, matching the panelled walls. Eaglestone was going over a list of engagements with his superior; the guest stood a little apart, a cigar between his teeth. The fragrance was particularly delicious, and she noticed the curious red glow at the end of the stump; also on his long white finger she noticed a blood-red ring. Again the persistent eyes sought hers, and this time Marigold drew up her head and looked back at him--and, because he smiled very pleasantly, she smiled too. Then, and not till then, did he remove the cigar definitely from his mouth. “You will object to this pernicious habit?” “No--please don’t. Remember I have been in the poor people’s dining-hall, and it positively reeked of typhoid.”