'I beg your pardon,' he said for perhaps the seventh time. He was thoroughly unstrung. Always excessively shy, he was embarrassed now by quite a variety of causes. The world was full of eyes--Mrs Ford's saying 'Go!' Ogden's saying 'Fool!' the portrait saying 'Idiot!' and, finally, the eyes of this wonderfully handsome girl, large, grey, cool, amused, and contemptuous saying--so it seemed to him in that feverish moment--'Who is this curious pink person who cumbers the ground before me?' 'I--I beg your pardon.' he repeated. 'Ought to look where you're going,' said Ogden severely. 'Not at all,' said the girl. 'Won't you introduce me, Nesta?' 'Lord Mountry--Miss Drassilis,' said Mrs Ford. 'I'm afraid we're driving Lord Mountry away,' said the girl. Her eyes seemed to his lordship larger, greyer, cooler, more amused, and more contemptuous than ever. He floundered in them like an unskilful swimmer in deep waters. 'No, no,' he stammered. 'Give you my word. Just going. Good-bye. You won't forget to let me know about the yacht, Mrs Ford--what? It'll be an awfully jolly party. Good-bye, good-bye, Miss Drassilis.' He looked at Ogden for an instant, as if undecided whether to take the liberty of addressing him too, and then, his heart apparently failing him, turned and bolted. From down the corridor came the clatter of a dropped stick. Cynthia Drassilis closed the door and smiled. 'A nervous young person!' she said. 'What was he saying about a yacht, Nesta?' Mrs Ford roused herself from her fascinated contemplation of Ogden. 'Oh, nothing. Some of us are going to the south of France in his yacht next week.' 'What a delightful idea!' There was a certain pensive note in Cynthia's voice. 'A splendid idea!' she murmured. Mrs Ford swooped. She descended on Ogden in a swirl and rustle of expensive millinery, and clasped him to her. 'My boy!' It is not given to everybody to glide neatly into a scene of tense emotion. Ogden failed to do so. He wriggled roughly from the embrace. 'Got a cigarette?' he said. He was an extraordinarily unpleasant little boy. Physically the portrait standing on the chair did him more than justice. Painted by a mother's loving hand, it flattered him. It was bulgy. He was more bulgy. It was sullen. He scowled. And, art having its limitations, particularly amateur art, the portrait gave no hint of his very repellent manner. He was an intensely sophisticated child. He had the air of one who has seen all life has to offer, and is now permanently bored. His speech and bearing were those of a young man, and a distinctly unlovable young man. Even Mrs Ford was momentarily chilled. She laughed shakily. 'How very matter-of-fact you are, darling!' she said. Cynthia was regarding the heir to the Ford millions with her usual steady, half-contemptuous gaze. 'He has been that all day,' she said. 'You have no notion what a help it was to me.' Mrs Ford turned to her effusively. 'Oh, Cynthia, dear, I haven't thanked you.'