“There—” he said, “now those sparrows have had all the bath they want, but they sit on just the same: they’re going to prevent any of the other birds having a dip—and they’ll do it too—unless I shy a stone at ’em. They’re the most high-strung birds I know. Hand me over a round pebble before you go, John.” The controversy ended in Elise and Mr. Brett going to Claridge’s Hotel for a flying visit. London never suited Mr. Brett, and on this occasion it suited him less than usual. His long heavy-jawed face turned as grey as his light summer suit; but it was a great convenience for dressmakers and Hermione had been perfectly lovely about it, though she was afraid she was too ill to see John. The Bretts had a large private sitting-room in which their meals were always served. Mr. Brett said he could never get over the feeling that it was unfriendly not to know people in public dining-rooms and pay for their food. It made him feel uncomfortable to think of their separate bills. John had come to dine after a long day in the City. The table was beautifully set, and decorated with blue and purple sweet peas. He saw with a slight feeling of surprise that it was laid for four. No one was in the room when he entered, but after a few minutes the door opened softly behind him, and he turned to greet an unknown guest. A woman stood quite still in the open doorway. A long white, chiffon velvet cloak hung over her shoulders and a white gauze wrap framed her head and face—out of its softness shone the hard glitter of diamonds. Her eyes were fixed on John. They were luminous grey eyes with exquisitely chiselled eyelids, and very long fair lashes. Her features were cut as clear as the features on a coin; she had no colour in her face except for her lips, which were the deepest carmine. They looked as if they were painted, but they were not painted. Hermione sometimes bit her lips before she came into a room, but she never used artificial aids, unless they looked perfectly natural. As she glided forward into the room, her gauze wrap fell on to her shoulders, and revealed a crown of thick fair hair, as vivid as a sunbeam. She held out both her hands, and murmured softly: “John, it _is_ John?” John had an absurd moment of sheer panic. Who was this lovely and perfectly strange woman who called him John? He was a good young man, but for one awful moment he wondered if this lady had any previous right to his Christian name? She held his hands, and it appeared as if she might be intending to kiss him. John looked as non-committal as only a man of his race and class can look in a moment of danger. Hermione did not kiss him: she pressed his hands, sighed deeply and sank gracefully into the easiest chair in the room. “To think I have not seen you till to-night,” she murmured. “I am Hermione.” John felt relieved, but guilty. He forgot that he had been twice turned away from the Princess Girla’s door—and apologised.