Gaveston bowed his surprised regret, and the brilliant house-party swept into the banqueting hall. Over the substantial viands the guests soon warmed to their favourite topics, and Gav was enabled to see how subtle and intricate was the blending of politicians and artists which made the Jordans’ parties familiar to every reader of the _Tatler_ and the _Sketch_. He listened appreciatively to the shreds of conversation that floated up the table towards him. “Ireland!” gasped General Tremullion. “I only asked for fifty tanks, and they----” But the adroit hostess had perceived the warrior’s choleric frustration and changed the subject. “For Lent reading,” affirmed the Bishop confidently, “I always recommend the ‘Mahabharata.’” Mr. Tollendale made a hurried note. And, yes, those were the measured tones of the Irish Secretary himself. “I admit that I should have liked to change that over-rated North Borneo for their almost untouched Mauritius; and they’d have done it too, if only.…” “What a _coup_ it would have been!” interrupted Gaveston, his quick imagination kindling at the opening vistas of a new Colonial policy. “You see, I think they knew I’d been concentrating on Africa for some time now.” The great Statesman continued, “For, as a matter of fact, I can tell you, in confidence of course, that, I’m, er … well, I’m buying Seychelles and Liberia, against a rise.” Gaveston gasped. What a scoop for _The Mongoose_! “And I don’t mind telling you,” the booming voice went on, “that the King himself is jealous of my three-cornered Cape of Good Hopes.” “Three cornered…?” Gaveston’s head swam. But only for a moment. How it all came back to him! His wits rallied, and he recovered himself. “I hope, Sir Nicholas,” he winged the words down the long table, “you won’t swap a defaced Ireland for a second-hand St. Helena.” It was a characteristic lightning-flash, and a thunder-clap of delighted laughter broke from all, not least from Sir Nicholas himself; he appreciated the subtle compliment. The Jordans gazed proudly at their promising _débutant_. Miss Tropes made a hurried note. Seldom had even Gaveston himself felt so sure of himself or so proud of the great ffoulis heritage of wit. But while the laughter still echoed in the high-flung rafters, Sir Nicholas was seen to be gazing intently towards the door, a charmed delight in his eyes. The late-comer! “_Quelle fille!_” he ejaculated with a graceful, old-world bow. Everyone turned. “Bladge!” came the unanimous cry. “Bladge!” And even Gaveston felt that the spot-lime of interest had for a moment shifted from himself. He too turned, and saw, framed there in the noble Tudor doorway, an entrancing vision of loveliness, English and womanly at once, shimmering snake-like in sequins and a picture-hat. Was it--or was it not? Why, yes! It was none other than Lady Blandula Merris! And in their frenzied welcome the guests let their very aspic grow cold.