The Lady Etwynde looks at them with grave, soft eyes, and a little puzzled wonder on her face. She has heard some of the buzzing from Society's wings, and she is beginning also to notice that Keith is the very shadow of the beautiful "Lady Lauraine." "I have a great treat in store for you," she says, in her slow, soft voice; "Signor Alfieri has promised to sing for me to-night. You know him, do you not?" "I have heard him at the opera, of course," says Lauraine. "But never in a room. How charming." "He is the most perfect Faust I have ever seen on the stage," continues the Lady Etwynde. "To hear him sing the 'Salve Dinora' is quite too exquisitely divine. Yes; he is going to honour my poor little entertainment." "You are very fortunate," remarks Keith Athelstone. "I know he refused to sing at the Duchess of St. Alban's 'At Home' the other night, despite all entreaties." "We must not miss a note," says the hostess tranquilly. "I think I will ask him to sing now. I have been waiting for Lauraine." Keith offers his arm, but the "Ladye" declines it, and makes a sign to an æsthetic poet, who looks starved enough to be "yearning" after the substantial goods of life. Then she floats off in her swaying, sensuous fashion, and Keith and Lauraine follow in silence. Seldom has Lauraine looked so lovely as she does tonight. Her dress is of the palest primrose shade, and of that exquisitely soft texture of silk called _satin merveilleux_, which drapes itself in graceful, clinging folds. A bodice and train of this shows a mass of creamy lace beneath. Some Gloire de Dijon roses nestle at her bosom, and a few more carelessly intermingled with maidenhair fern, and knotted together by long trails of primrose-coloured ribbon, are held in her hand. Her hair is without ornament, and the beautiful throat and neck are unmarred by any jewels, and gleam white as marble. Keith Athelstone's heart gives one great painful throb as he moves on by her side. He thinks he has never seen her look so exquisite, so dangerously attractive, as to-night. "Sir Francis not coming?" he says carelessly, and from his voice no one would suspect the feelings at work within his breast. "No," says Lauraine. "He doesn't like æstheticism, you know." "They are not in such strong force to-night," says Keith, glancing round to see to whom Lauraine has just bowed. "Still, a good many planted about, I think. It's the men get over me. Did you ever see such guys?" "Can't Lady Etwynde convert you?" asks Lauraine, smiling a little. "To make myself up in that fashion--no, thank you. Besides, Nature hasn't given me the class of features necessary, and I don't suppose even a prolonged course of starvation would reduce me to such skinniness in the matter of legs and arms as those 'yearners' can boast of."