A thousand questions ran through Chalfont’s head. Madame de Brézé.—Widow of one of the gallant Frenchmen who had been killed in the War, or the wife, let down by her lover, of an elderly Parisian blood? He would bet his life against the latter conjecture, and the first did not seem to be possible because he had never seen any face so free from grief, pain or suffering. De Brézé. The name conveyed nothing. He had never heard it before. It had a good ring about it. But how was it that this girl talked English as well as his sister? She looked French. She wore her dress like a Frenchwoman. There was something about the neatness of her hair which Frenchwomen alone achieve. Probably educated in England. He was delighted with her acceptance of the situation. That was decidedly French. An English girl, even in these days, would either have frozen him to his shoes or lent to the episode a forced note of irregularity which would have made it tiresome and tasteless. It was not until after the asparagus had arrived that Lola succeeded in catching Fallaray’s eyes. They looked at her for a moment as though she were merely a necessary piece of hotel decoration and wandered off. But to her intense and indescribable joy, they returned and remained and something came into them which showed her that he had focused them upon her as a human being and a woman. She saw that he wore the expression of a man who had suddenly heard the loud ringing of a bell, an alarm bell. And then, having seen that his stare had been noticed, he never looked again. The rustle of silk!—The rustle of silk! And presently, Chalfont being silent, she leant forward and spoke in a low voice. Luckily the band was not playing a jazz tune but at the request of some old-fashioned person Massenet’s “Elegy.” She said, “Sir Peter, will you do something for me?” And he replied, “Anything under the sun.” “Well, then, will you introduce me to Mr. Fallaray before he leaves the room? He’s at a table just behind you. I admire him so much. It would be a great—the greatest——” Her voice broke and a flush ran up to her hair, and something came into her eyes that made them look like stars. Luckily Chalfont was not looking at her face. Her request was a large order, and as usual when puzzled,—he was never disconcerted—he began twisting about his comic cork hand. “Fallaray?” he said, and raised his eyebrows. “Of course, I’d love to do it for you. I know him as well as anybody else does, I suppose—I mean ordinary people. But he doesn’t remember me from Adam. He passed me to-night in the foyer, for instance, and looked clean through my head. I had to put up my hand to see that I hadn’t left it at home. He’s the only man, except the sweep who used to come to our house when I was a kid, of whom I’ve ever been afraid. However—you wish it and the thing must be done.” And he gave her a little bow.