“I’m glad we’re not in the balloon now,” she said. “The gale is going to end in a regular thunderstorm!” Mr. Steele was speaking to the butler in a low voice. “Have those curtains drawn closer,” Lady Dorothy heard him say, “and be quick as you can with the rest of the dinner!” It was clear that either he, or some of his guests, were nervous about thunder and lightning. A second peal, much nearer than the first, made the windows rattle. The conversation, which had already dropped to a lower key, now ceased altogether, and a sort of embarrassed silence followed, while most of the diners glanced nervously round the room and towards the tall windows. Mr. Steele looked as if he were bracing himself to meet an unexpected danger; his brows were knitted, his stern mouth was tightly shut, and he was evidently scanning the faces of his guests with anxiety. “Do you often have bad thunderstorms here?” Lady Dorothy asked, to attract his attention and break the silence. “Seldom,” he answered abstractedly, and not looking at her. “Most of my guests dislike them very much.” “How very odd!” She glanced down the table, and saw the nice-looking Mr. Trevelyan leaning far back in his chair, his eyes half closed and his face very white. Mr. Steele made an attempt to revive the conversation, talking in loud tones to the whole table about a lawn tennis tournament, for which he said there would be a number of pretty prizes. Bob Trevelyan was eating steadily, and took no interest in what was going on. Suddenly he felt that the benevolent old gentleman was plucking at his sleeve very quietly. He turned, and saw that his neighbour was earnestly gazing at him. At that moment a third peal rang out, and the glasses on the table trembled. “Did he tell you who I am?” asked the old gentleman in an undertone, and bending his head towards the master of the house. “I beg your pardon: no--I don’t think I was introduced,” Bob answered. “He would have told you that I am Mr. Simpson; and so I was,” said the grey-haired man. “But that,” he added in low and tragic tones, “was by another mother. I am the Dowager Empress of China, and I am here incognito, disguised as a man.” “What in the world do you mean?” asked Trevelyan, very much taken aback. “It is a sad story, and a long one.” The old gentleman shook his head mysteriously. “They thought I took too active a part in politics. Possibly I did, but at the time of the Boxer riots many outrageous doings were unjustly traced to me. I give you my solemn assurance, on the word of an empress, that I did not order the attack on the Legations! Do you believe me, or not?” He gazed at Bob with fixed eyes, but Trevelyan could only stare back in blank surprise.