Sir Jules was a little man with a wonderful head. He was sixty-four years old, but had the intellectual energy of a man of twenty. The East and the West were strangely blended in a countenance full of power and quiet dignity. A softer voice Faber had never heard. "Very well, Mr. Faber. And you?" "Always well--on paper. You are going through to Italy, I hear--you'll catch the Emperor, I think." "I hope so. The promises encourage me." "But the performances will be better. Any old fool of a minister can promise; it is a king who performs." "You have read my pamphlet, Mr. Faber?" "Every line--the greatest peace scheme--I was going to say, on earth. I'll change that: Out of heaven's nearer it!" "Of course, it must come slowly, if it comes." "All the best things come slowly. Man was about a million years about before he thought of microbes--this is a great affair; none greater. It would be the coup of the century if you brought it off. There could be nothing greater." "I hope to do so. Are you staying here long?" "As many hours as it will take me to teach a man my name. I may be at Corfu myself afterwards. I'm imitating you, and buying a yacht." "The one luxury in the world--get a good one." "There won't be any better when I begin." The group passed on; Faber shook hands with Eva, but not with Claudine d'Arny. When Gabrielle's turn came, he held her hand in his for a brief instant and said: "Well, how's the I.A.L.?" "Waiting for your name," she replied. But she did not withdraw her hand. "Will you give me the top of the bill?" "In gold and purple." "And printed on fine linen? Well, I'm not tempted." "The day will come----" He laughed and dropped her hand. "That's Booth, the actor. Well, most of you are play-acting, anyway. Good-night, Miss Silvester, don't forget what I say." She laughed and spoke in a lower tone. "I will remind you of it at Corfu," she said. The men watched them down the corridor before Bertie Morris became eloquent. He was not a little piqued that the girls had ignored him, while even Sir Jules had regarded him as one regards an ugly piece of china in a glass-case. A poor tribute, he thought, to the might of the pen. "Well?" said Faber. "A d----d fine girl, but cold as marble!" "What makes you think so?" "Voice, gesture, everything. Give her a chance, and she'd be up on a platform spouting." "I don't think so. She's going to have many chances. What about the others?" "The old man's daughter is just a bread-and-butter miss. I liked little Claudine d'Arny--as ugly as sin, but passion enough for a nautch girl." "You remind me of her father. See here: I had a letter from him to-day. What would happen to-morrow if I published it--by accident? Here's a note of it." Bertie read it carelessly; then with a journalistic interest: "If you published that----" "Or you did----" "Same thing--I guess he'd be out of Paris in four-and-twenty hours."