“Bladge!”--so _that_ was her name among the glittering few whom she counted as her intimates.… He must remember that. [Illustration: “BLADGE!” CAME THE UNANIMOUS CRY.] Although the daughter of one of our lesser-known marquesses, Lady Blandula was certainly the foremost figure of British womanhood, more wryly _chic_ than any but the most anglicized _Parisiennes_, more sought after than any Royalty, more daring than any Bohemian, more photographed than any race-horse. No dance could boast itself a ball unless she graced it, no _matinée_ charitable if she did not assist, nor were any theatricals amateur in which she did not perform. Slum missions and night-clubs were as one to her, for NIL ALIENUM PUTO was the proud old Merris motto. Her beauty was rivalled only by her superb audacities. To those who knew her she seemed Virtue incarnate, but dark stories were whispered round the envious suburbs of her more than Paphian orgies.… As she sat down in the vacant place beside him, Gaveston ffoulis felt that at last he had met a woman whom he could respect. Yet he felt oddly aware that, somewhere or somewhen, he had met her before.… All through the princely meal he watched her discreetly but closely--in what incarnation could it have been … or what æon?… When he was a King in Babylon…? After dinner a galaxy of intelligentsian entertainment was provided by the experienced hosts; planchette, charades, chamber-music, recitations and auto-suggestion were freely indulged in; and in the Edward VII smoke-room the kindly host grew deliberately reminiscent. But Gav and Lady Blandula, in their unconventional way, were sitting out on one of the greater staircases, sipping liqueurs and bandying witticisms highly characteristic of each other. Suddenly Bladge slipped from her finger a curiously wrought ring of turquoise, and handed it to her surprised, and almost flattered, companion. “Yours, Gav,” she said with a champagne-like laugh. “I got it on false pretences, you know--and I’ll draw you a cheque for its wrapping.” Gav looked at her in puzzled silence. “Oh, stupid!” she rattled on. “And is your soul _still_ so beautiful? My body certainly is!” “But really----” “No, I could see all the time you didn’t really know your Plotinus Arbiter, _mon petit rat_!” And Gaveston remembered. So _that_ had been another of the famous syren’s tricks! This one at all costs must be kept from the newspapers.… His look spoke for him, and Lady Blandula laughed heartily as she went on. “Oh, it’s all right, you poor lamb! Innocent relaxation and social research--why _shouldn’t_ I combine them? I did, you know, for quite a week after that night, too.” Synthesis always appealed to Gaveston. “Bladge!” he cried, and his voice rang true. “You are wonderful! I see all this century in you!” But just then a voice was heard behind them. General Tremullion was coming down from the Bezique Gallery with Lady Jordan. He was still talking professionally.