THE Marchioness carefully draped the dust-cloth over the head of an andiron and, before putting the question to the parlour-maid, consulted, with the intensity of a near-sighted person, the ornate French clock in the centre of the mantelpiece. Then she brushed her fingers on the voluminous apron that almost completely enveloped her slight person. "Well, who is it, Julia?" "It's Lord Temple, ma'am, and he wants to know if you're too busy to come to the 'phone. If you are, I'm to ask you something." The Marchioness hesitated. "How do you know it is Lord Eric? Did he mention his name?" "He did, ma'am. He said 'this is Tom Trotter speaking, Julia, and is your mistress disengaged?' And so I knew it couldn't be any one else but his Lordship." "And what are you to ask me?" "He wants to know if he may bring a friend around tonight, ma'am. A gentleman from Constantinople, ma'am." "A Turk? He knows I do not like Turks," said the Marchioness, more to herself than to Julia. "He didn't say, ma'am. Just Constantinople." The Marchioness removed her apron and handed it to Julia. You would have thought she expected to confront Lord Temple in person, or at least that she would be fully visible to him despite the distance and the intervening buildings that lay between. Tucking a few stray locks of her snow-white hair into place, she approached the telephone in the hall. She had never quite gotten over the impression that one could be seen through as well as heard over the telephone. She always smiled or frowned or gesticulated, as occasion demanded; she was never languid, never bored, never listless. A chat was a chat, at long range or short; it didn't matter. "Are you there? Good evening, Mr. Trotter. So charmed to hear your voice." She had seated herself at the little old Italian table. Mr. Trotter devoted a full two minutes to explanations. "Do bring him with you," cried she. "Your word is sufficient. He _must_ be delightful. Of course, I shuddered a little when you mentioned Constantinople. I always do. One can't help thinking of the Armenians. Eh? Oh, yes,--and the harems." Mr. Trotter: "By the way, are you expecting Lady Jane tonight?" The Marchioness: "She rarely fails us, Mr. Trotter." Mr. Trotter: "Right-o! Well, good-bye,--and thank you. I'm sure you will like the baron. He is a trifle seedy, as I said before,--sailing vessel, you know, and all that sort of thing. By way of Cape Town,--pretty well up against it for the past year or two besides,--but a regular fellow, as they say over here." The Marchioness: "Where did you say he is stopping?" Mr. Trotter: "Can't for the life of me remember whether it's the 'Sailors' Loft' or the 'Sailors' Bunk.' He told me too. On the water-front somewhere. I knew him in Hong Kong. He says he has cut it all out, however." The Marchioness: "Cut it all out, Mr. Trotter?"