Lady Raytham tore open the envelope. It was dated from Constantinople, and was from Raytham. She had been expecting the telegram all that afternoon. Raytham, of course, had changed his plans. In that sentence was epitomized his life and career. He was going on to Basra and thence to Bushire, to see the interstate oil wells, or the sites of them. He was expensively apologetic for two closely written sheets. If he could not return before April, would she go on to Cannes as she had arranged? He was “awfully sorry,” he must have said that at least four times. She read it again, folded the pink sheets and laid them on the table. The butler was waiting, head slightly bent forward as though to catch her slightest whisper. She did not look at him. “Thank you.” “Thank you, m’lady.” He was opening the door when she spoke. “Druze, I am expecting the Princess Bellini and possibly Mrs. Gurden. I will have tea when they come.” “Very good, m’lady.” The door closed softly behind him. She raised her sombre eyes and looked at the polished wood of it with a curious, listening lift of her head as though she expected to hear something. But the butler was going slowly down the stairs, a quizzical smile in his eyes; his white, plump hands sliding in and over one another. He stopped on the landing to admire the little marble statue of Circe that his lordship had brought from Sicily. It was a habit of his to admire that Circe with the sly eyes and the beckoning finger. And as he looked, his mouth was puckered as though he were whistling. A sharp rat-tat on the door made him withdraw from his contemplation. He reached the hall as the second footman opened the door. Two women entered. Through the open door he had a glimpse of a limousine drawing away. “Her ladyship is in the drawing room, your highness. Shall I take your highness’s coat?” “You can’t,” said the first and the bigger woman brusquely. “Help Mrs. Gurden out of hers. Why you wear such horrible contraptions I can’t understand.” Mrs. Gurden smiled largely. “Darling, I must wear something. Thank you, Druze.” Druze took the transparent silk coat and handed it to the second footman. The princess was already stamping up the stairs. She pushed open the door and walked in unannounced. Lady Raytham, standing by the fire, her head pillowed on her arm, looked up, startled. “I’m so awfully sorry. Push the lights, Anita. The button is by your hand. Well?” The Princess Anita Bellini struggled unaided out of her tweed coat and threw it over the back of a chair, jerked off her hat with another movement and tossed it after the coat. People who saw Anita Bellini for the first time gazed at her in awe; there was a certain ruthless strength in every line, every feature. She was something more than fifty and was just under six feet in height.