"Men are so silly," she said merrily as he finished. "Fancy getting angry over a game of golf! And all by yourself, too! If there had been some one to vent your rage upon----" "Alas, there was!" said Mr. Beckett, with a whimsical glance at Lionel, who, despite himself and his suspicions, felt drawn toward the enemy. It was a friendly party of three that walked toward the summer-house. On the whole, tea was a successful meal. Miss Arkwright led the conversation--monopolized it, almost; hardly pausing for replies, agreement, or contradiction. She looked splendid, her color heightened with pleasure, excitement, or kindred emotions. Lionel, who had studied her attentively for no short period, had never seen her in such a mood. She was gay and charming, unusually ready with the froth of sparkling small-talk. Any one meeting her for the first time would have believed her a clever _flaneuse_, a butterfly with brains and beauty, living solely for the moment. But Lionel, who knew her better and had some secret knowledge of her possibilities for intrigue and conspiracy, found himself questioning. Was she nervous? And if so, of what? Mr. Beckett had little opportunity to display his social gifts. The abilities, doubtless great to secure his present office, perforce lay hidden. But the few sentences he uttered, by way of confirmation or its opposite, were enough to show him as a man of original thought, some wit, and in close touch with the affairs of nations. An old man, he bore his years lightly; though the mask of frivolity he assumed out of compliment to his environment was occasionally dropped in moments of repose. At such moments he appeared tired--not physically, but of mundane trivialities. At last Winifred rose. "You know my routine," she said brightly to Lionel: "I must vanish speedily. No! don't move. Stay here and smoke. I shall escort Mr. Beckett----" "You still, then----" began the ambassador, rising at the hint. She interrupted him bruskly. "Still--still--still! Are we not always 'stilling'? I wonder that a man of your experience finds anything remarkable in that. Oh, do not interrupt!"--for he made a deprecating gesture, opening his mouth to speak--"I will hear no excuses for banality. 'The ringing grooves of change' is pure fallacy; change is absent; only the grooves remain. We are what we are. As it was in the beginning, is now, and--do I shock you?" she asked abruptly, turning to Lionel. "Surprise; not shock," he smiled. "Then you owe me a debt of gratitude. Surprise is one of nature's best gifts, but at our mature age she is parsimonious. Don't you agree, Mr. Beckett?" He, too, smiled, but mournfully. "I have more need to count my birthdays than you," he said. "If your surprises are few, how many can I hope for?"