Laurence’s hazel eyes fixed themselves reproachfully upon her uncle. _She_ did not feel inclined to praise Preston Wynne’s gaiety. A man jilted by her should have displayed a fitter regret for what he had lost, and, seeking consolation, she turned toward Neville, who, at least, knew what was due her better than to laugh and joke; but, lo and behold, this distinguished young officer was deep in conversation with Marguerite, who looked exasperatingly pretty. There was Basil, too--her own wedded husband--talking and enjoying himself just as if she had never made him a scene and tried to make him squirm! Her fingers closed brutally upon the Sèvres handle of her fruit-knife. Was her power over the stronger sex on the wane? That would be agreeable! In that case she might as well go and bury herself in the snows of Tverna, as Basil had hinted that very morning it might be wise for them to do. He had patiently explained that the peasantry on this particular estate was being rendered restless by agitators and _kabàk_ orators. Her exasperating reflections were, however, cut short by the signal from Lady Seton, which brought everybody to their feet. Bowing for once to Continental etiquette, she had picked up both men and women with her eyes, and therefore all assembled together in the adjoining salon, where coffee, liqueurs, and cigarettes awaited them before a brilliant fire. Strangely enough, it was Basil who appeared at home beneath Sir Robert and Lady Seton’s temporary roof-tree, not Laurence; for, disinteresting herself utterly from her relatives and their guests, she withdrew to a side-table and began to turn over the periodicals and papers with which it was littered; her air and expression one of mournful detachment, as if she had long since discovered that the gilding of a cake may, after all, mark but indigestible dough, and was trying to resign herself to this unwholesome diet with angelic patience. Greatly intrigued by this strange attitude, “Antinoüs” approached her. “You seem tired, _chère madame_. Will it weary you further if I take a seat here and converse with you?” He was speaking with well-feigned sympathy. “Not in the least, Monsieur de Plenhöel,” she answered, drawing her skirts aside to make room for him on the foot of the lounge to which she had retreated. She did not see that he was considering her out of the corner of an extraordinarily mocking eye. “What I admire,” he was thinking, “are the transports of joy with which she hails the reappearance of her uncle and aunt upon the tapis.” But aloud he said, gently, “You remind me of one of our Brittany wild roses to-night, madame.” “Why wild?” she questioned, her eyes softening at the broad hint of compliment. “I am very tame, I assure you.” “Really!” he smiled. “One would scarcely connect you with tameness. You are a pronounced personality, and such rarely submit to dulling influences.”