The few people who were already dining--it was early on this May night--looked at Denzil Ardayre--he was such a refreshing sight of health and youth, so tall and fit and English, with his brown smooth head and fearless blue eyes, gay and debonnaire. One could see that he played cricket and polo, and any other game that came along, and that not a muscle of his frame was out of condition. He had "soldier" written upon him--young, gallant, cavalry soldier. Verisschenzko appreciated him; nothing complete, human or inanimate, left him unconscious of its meaning. They knew one another very well--they had been at Oxford and later had shot bears together in the Russian's far-off home. They talked for a while of casual things, and then Verisschenzko said: "Some relations of yours are here--Sir John Ardayre and his particularly attractive bride. Shall we eat what I had ordered for Collette, or have you other fancies after the soup?" Denzil paid only attention to the first part of the speech--he looked surprised and interested. "John Ardayre here! Of course, he married about ten days ago--he is the head of the family as you are aware, but I hardly even know him by sight. He is quite ten years older than I am and does not trouble about us, the poor younger branch--" and he smiled, showing such good teeth. "Besides, as you know, I have been for such a long time in India, and the leaves were for sport, not for hunting up relations." Verisschenzko did not press the matter of his guest's fancies in food, and they continued the menu ordered for Collette without further delay. "I want to hear all that you know about them, the girl is an exquisite thing with immense possibilities. Sir John looks--dull." "He is really a splendid character though," Denzil hastened to assure him. "Do you know the family history? But no, of course not, we were too busy in the old days enjoying life to trouble to talk of such things! Well, it is rather strange in the last generation--things very nearly came to an end and John has built it all up again. You are interested in heredity?" "Naturally--what is the story?" "Our mutual great-grandfather was a tremendous personage in North Somerset--the place Ardayre is there. My father was the son of the younger son, who had just enough to do him decently at Eton, and enable him to scrape along in the old regiment with a pony or two to play with. My mother was a Willowbrook, as you know, and a considerable heiress, that is how I come out all right, but until John's father, Sir James, squandered things, the head of the family was always very rich and full of land--and awfully set on the dignity of his race. They had turned the cult of it into regular religion." "The father of this man made a _gaspillage_, then--well?" "Yes, he was a rotter--a hark-back to his mother's relations; she was a Cranmote--they ruin any blood they mix with. I am glad that I come from the generation before."