“Your health, Major Carruthers!” said the tall man—raising his glass. Carruthers bowed and looked across at him with a certain measure of criticism, perhaps—but nevertheless approvingly. “Glad you came to-night?” he questioned. The man addressed emptied the glass deliberately and took his time before replying. No doubt he was accustomed to have people wait upon his words. “Yes—and no,” he answered. “These things, of course, make some sort of an appeal—it would be idle to pretend otherwise—yet I can’t help feeling that they are what I may term counterfeit. They represent the shadow rather than the substance of Life. They lie far apart, for instance, from my own destiny and work.” He put down his glass. Carruthers smiled. “I think I know what you mean. Like you, I am primarily, I suppose, a man of action. The open spaces are to me the places that count most. Yet I find time to appreciate this sort of thing intensely. There is a joyousness about it all that sets something in me going in vivid response—perhaps you don’t experience it.” His companion shook his head, “Only to a degree,” he admitted. The Major laughed at the cautiousness of the reply. “I suspect that’s all you feel inclined to admit—your somewhat peculiar position with regard to Society has given you what I’ll call a bias—a warp perhaps would be a better description.” He half turned impetuously in his chair—then gave a sudden exclamation. “Pardon me a moment,” he said, and rising quickly walked to a table that stood some distance away on the other side of the room. The tall man turned and watched him a little lazily perhaps, as he made his way across. A girl rose to greet him—her hand outstretched impulsively. Then she turned and indicated her escort shyly—yet prettily. The man who had been left behind discarded his indolent mood and saw Major Carruthers bow with an almost studied dignity. Then his eyes—keen and alert by now—swept back to the girl who had first engaged the Chief Constable’s attention. It did not take him long to appreciate her beauty—of a type as unusual as it was outstanding. Wonderful auburn hair—the true Burne-Jones tint—crowned a dainty head that was superbly poised on a pair of trim shoulders. She had also the perfect complexion that almost invariably accompanies that particular shade of hair. The man that was watching her was seated too far away to see the colour of her eyes but he was satisfied that her carriage was charmingly assured and her limbs curvingly supple with the grace and glory of youth. Major Carruthers bowed gallantly over her finger-tips—whispered something that caused her to blush exquisitely—and sauntered back. His companion greeted him immediately. “Almost am I in a mind now to qualify my last remark.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Who’s the lady?” His eyes eagerly awaited Carruthers’ reply.