The Countess, who was shining resplendent in a dress composed entirely of Indian shawls folded tight round her lissome figure, welcomed Madeline with effusion, and gave the tip of her fingers to Miss Forster; then after a little desultory prattle, she introduced Madeline to a limp gentleman standing near, and floated away to another part of the room. ‘A charming creature the Countess,’ said the limp gentleman. ‘So far above the vulgar prejudices of our too crowded civilisation, with no creed but Beauty, and no God but Art.’ ‘Yes,’ murmured Madeline, scarcely attending, as she gazed rather vacantly round the room. ‘Have you seen Botticelli Jones’s picture of her ladyship as “A Lily of Languor in the Garden of Proserpine”? No? Well, Ponto says it is the most superbly sane and cosmic thing----’ He was interrupted by a cry from Madeline, who, leaving his side without a word of apology, crossed the room rapidly, and approached a grim-looking person with a light beard, clad in a very shabby dress suit and rather disreputable boots. This was no other person than Jack Bingham, an artist by profession, of the old ‘pipe and beer’ school, and a bosom friend of Marmaduke White. ‘What, Jack!’ she cried, holding out both her hands. Everybody called him Jack. As she spoke the grim face relaxed into a smile. ‘What, is it you?’ returned Jack, with a delighted laugh. ‘Yes, and I am so glad to see you. But who would have thought of meeting you here, of all the places in the world? Dear, dear Jack, the very sight of you calls up old times.’ And tears stood in her eyes as she gazed upon his homely face. Jack was affected too in his rough way, so he made a diversion. ‘Beastly slow, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a smoke room, and none of the fellows are my sort.’ ‘Why haven’t you come to see me?’ asked Madeline, nodding. ‘Since your marriage?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, I don’t know--you didn’t ask me--and your husband’s a swell.’ ‘He’s nothing of the sort, Jack, and as to not being asked, you ought to have known my house was open to every friend of my dear guardian. You might smoke in the drawing-room if you liked, and no one would object.’ Jack laughed. ‘I’m not quite such a beast as that; but there, I’ll come since you wish it, and have a talk about old times.’ At this point they were interrupted by Blanco Serena. ‘Mrs. Forster,’ said he, ‘permit me; I wish to make two clever people known to each other.’ Madeline placed her hand on Serena’s proffered arm, and with a smile and a nod to Bingham moved a few steps away. Presently she paused and looked up into her companion’s face. ‘Mr. Serena,’ she said, ‘who is the person? Nobody very clever, I hope; I am so afraid of very clever people.’ ‘I am going, my dear Imogen, to introduce you to one who, if the “Megatherium” is to be trusted, is one of the greatest minds of the age. A man who is all spirit, whose soul is a combination of music and song, whose----’