corner of the curtain from the world of beauty, rank and fashion. “Another section of the public you propose to educate,” I told O’Rane. “And you,” he retorted. “You heard what Sam Dainton said about the state of Paris. Everybody hating everybody else.” . . . I looked round to make sure that we were not being overheard. Lucien de Grammont, I knew, was somewhere in the room; but I fancied that he was avoiding me. “That’s only these damned French,” I said. “Instead of thanking us for pulling them out of the mire, they think _they_ won the war single-handed and our job is just to foot the bill. Hang it all, Raney, we spent more money and provided more ammunition than any one else; we raised about five million men; we stayed on to clear the Germans out of France when it was all we could do to keep the French in the war at all; and, when our papers were gushing about the splendid unity, the French government was making us pay rent for the trenches our men occupied to defend their miserable country. They’re the meanest hounds on earth. During the war, one couldn’t say these things . . .” “Does one do much good by saying them now? The Americans bring pretty much the same charge against us. You’ve an organization, George, and you should make it your business to fight the hatred-epidemic.” . . . He broke off, as the bland Gaspard presented himself at our table with the announcement that a lady was waiting outside. When I read Yolande Manisty’s name, I guessed that Raymond Stornaway was worse; when I met her, I knew—without being told—that he was dead. As I came back to the blaze and blare of the dining-room, I felt that this was my first contact with reality that night. The financiers and wire-pullers and propagandists, the glittering _corps de ballet_, the punctual scribe who chronicled their movements, all belonged to a world of masquerade. I cannot say what lesson Bertrand had sent me there to learn; the lesson which I carried away was a doubt—the first since 1914—of victory. I drove O’Rane to his house in Westminster and left him to think over Yolande Manisty’s message. By the terms of her uncle’s will, he had—for better or for worse—inherited unconditionally an estate of more than twenty million pounds. CHAPTER FIVE THE RED ACCOUNT _Countess of Montesquiou_: So much for the Congress! Only a few blank nobodies remain, And they seem terror-stricken. . . . Blackly end Such fair festivities. The red god War Stalks Europe’s plains anew! THOMAS HARDY: _The Dynasts._ 1