“Lying down, Alfie. She has been on the go all day. Much beauty is required for this evening. She's giving it a chance to catch her napping.” “By golly, it's the only thing that ever does catch her napping,” said Alfred warmly. “She's a wonder, Derrol. She'd be a field-marshal if she ever got into the army.” “I haven't the least doubt of it,” said Captain Steele, smiling. Even as he uttered the jesting words, a strange, uncanny sense of their importance took root in his mind. Very serious topics were discussed by the guests at Mrs. Carstairs' dinner that evening. No one felt the least restraint, nor the slightest hesitancy in speaking freely of matters that never were mentioned in the open. Questions that could not have been answered outside the most secret recesses of the State department were frankly asked here,--and answered by some one who spoke with authority. No man feared his neighbour, nor his neighbour's wife, for here were assembled only those to whom the Government itself could look with confidence. These were the people on the inside of everything, the spokes of the inner wheel,--the people who knew what was going on in Washington, in London, and in Paris. No alien ears were here to listen, no alien eyes to watch; sanctuary for the true and loyal. One man there held his tongue, and spoke not of the things that were vital: Captain Derrol Steele. It was not modesty alone that kept him silent in this imposing group, nor the recognition of his own insignificance. He had had his lesson. He was young enough to profit by it. True, the wine may have had something to do with it. It usually does. A beguiling lubricant is this thing that gets into the rustiest of brains and produces a smooth combination of thought and thoughtlessness. In any case, tongues wagged loosely and wits were never keener than in this atmosphere of ripe security. A good many secrets were out for an airing. They were supposed, in good time, to get back into their closets and lie there as snugly as if they had never been disturbed. Mrs. Carstairs was never more brilliant than on this particular evening. Always clever,--but never witty,--she was at her best when surrounded by personalities such as these; when confronted by problems which permitted her profound mentality to rise to its highest level and her singularly clear-headed vision to project itself across spaces that defy even the most far-seeing of men. She went below the surface of everything; she saw nothing from a superficial point of view. What men liked in her, and what other women envied and sometimes hated, was the rare faculty of saying little unless she was prepared to say a great deal more. More than one great statesman had said, on occasion, that it was too bad she wasn't a man! With a mind like that, well, there's no telling! No wonder Davenport Carstairs was proud of her!