She looked at him thoughtfully. Lutchester was a little over thirty-five years of age, tall and of sinewy build. His colouring was neutral, his complexion inclined to be pale, his mouth straight and firm, his grey eyes rather deep-set. Without possessing any of the stereotyped qualifications, he was sufficiently good-looking. "I wonder you didn't prefer soldiering," she observed. He smiled for a moment, and Pamela felt unreasonably annoyed at the twinkle in his eyes. "I am not a soldier by profession," he said, "but I went out with the Expeditionary Force and had a year of it. They kept me here, after a slight wound, to take up my old work again." "Your old work," she repeated. "I didn't know there was such a thing as a Ministry of Munitions before the war." He deliberately changed the conversation, directing Pamela's attention to the crowded condition of the room. "Gay scene, isn't it?" he remarked. "Very!" she assented drily. "Do you come here to dance?" he inquired. She shook her head. "You must remember that I have been living in Paris for some months," she told him. "You won't be annoyed if I tell you that the way you English people are taking the war simply maddens me. Your young soldiers talk about it as though it were a sort of picnic, your middle-aged clubmen seem to think that it was invented to give them a fresh interest in their newspapers, and the rest of you seem to think of nothing but the money you are making. And Paris.... No, I don't think I should care to dance here!" Lutchester nodded, but Pamela fancied somehow or other that his attitude was not wholly sympathetic. His tone, with its slight note of admonition, irritated her. "You must be careful," he said, "not to be too much misled by externals." Pamela opened her lips for a quick reply, but checked herself. Captain Holderness and Ferrani had entered the room and were approaching their table, talking earnestly. The latter especially was looking perplexed and anxious. "It's the queerest thing I ever knew," Holderness pronounced. "We've searched every hole and corner upstairs, and there isn't a sign of Sandy." "Have you tried the bar?" Lutchester inquired. "Both the bar and the grillroom," Ferrani assured him. "If he had been suddenly taken ill--" Molly murmured. "But there is no place in which he could have been taken ill which we have not searched," Ferrani reminded her. "And besides," Holderness intervened, "Sandy was in the very pink of health, and bubbling over with high-spirits." "One noticed that," Lutchester remarked, a little drily. "He might almost have been called garrulous," Pamela agreed. Ferrani took grave leave of them, and Holderness seated himself at the table. "Well, let's get on with luncheon, anyway," he advised. "It's no good bothering. The best thing we can do is to conclude that the impossible has happened--that Sandy has met with some pals and will be here presently."