The tall Melusine stooped her head; Scales nodded, then, by an afterthought, shook hands. “I'm very fit, thanks,” he said. “Been travelling?” Sanchia sought the side of Lady Maria, to whom she named Ingram. His exaggerated bow was accepted. “So you've arrived, I see,” said Lady Maria. “One does, you know.” Ingram shrugged at the inevitable. “All roads lead to Rome.” “Most roads lead to Lady Maria,” Morosine said to Sanchia, who replied from her heart, “I'm very glad that mine did.” Moved either by loyalty to his friendship, or touched by his recent words, she then brought him bodily into play. “Mr. Nevile Ingram; Prince Morosine.” The two men inclined; Morosine lifted his hat, Ingram touched his brim. Ingram, whom Morosine judged as a hard worker just now, supported his part with great gallantry. If he was naked to all these people who knew him, he appeared quite unashamed. Morosine, watching him carefully, believed that he had devoted a night's vigil to getting word perfect. He described Khartoum with vivacity--the English drill sergeant reigning over mudheaps, flies, and prowling dogs; getting up cricket-matches for the edification of contemptuous blacks. “They judge us, those fellows, you know. They are measuring us with their glazed eyes. The cud they chew has gall in it. I don't suppose anything offends them more deeply than our idiotic games. Is there a more frivolous race in the world than ours?” Lady Maria suggested that the Boers might ask that question; Morosine that the Germans might answer it. Sanchia standing between these two, faced by Ingram, kept silent. She was conscious of being closely under observation. Morosine did not once lose sight of her. Whatever he said was addressed to her. Once, when she looked at him, she saw the gleam of knowledge in his eyes. He and Ingram never spoke to each other directly; indirectly Morosine capped whatever Ingram said. It was these two who maintained the talk through her sensitive frame. Melusine and her husband exchanged glances--she in obedience to his fidgety heels. He had dug a hole in the gravel deep enough to bury a kitten. Her curtsey--it was almost that--to Lady Maria was very pretty. She drew in her suffering sister, almost embraced her. “Dearest, dearest!” she whispered. Sanchia, who was very pale, made no answer, and hardly returned the salute. “Insufferable beggar,” was Gerald Scales' outburst. “I could have shot him at sight. But you women will go through with it, I suppose.” “Oh, Gerald,” faltered Melusine, “it's dreadful--but what can she do?” “Pon my soul, I'd take Morosov--the Polish party--what's-his-name--first. I would indeed--on the whole.” There was nothing to say. Melusine knew that could not be.