But while the dinner-party at Government House had taken a fresh lease of life under Grace Arbuthnot's guidance, there was another dinner-party going on in Nushapore, where the good wine of high spirits had come first and the ditch-water of dulness last. This was at Mr. Lucanaster's; and it had been the probability of being late for this--a supreme effort on his part towards something preeminently jolly--which had made him sulky at being delayed by the 'memorable occasion.' For, to begin with, more time would be required for dressing than usual, since the party was to be a _réchauffé_ of the Mutiny Lancers. It was to be a Mutiny dinner; and for the first time Mrs. Chris had consented to act as hostess and sit at the top of Mr. Lucanaster's table; Mrs. Chris in that bewildering costume of pink roses and white shoulders. And everything had been perfect. The dinner worthy of a _chef_, the champagne iced enough to cool the tongue, not enough to lessen its sparkle. And yet, at eleven o'clock, the guests were beginning to leave. At half-past, Mrs. Chris--there was no mistake in her costume either--was eyeing Mr. Lucanaster with the amused superiority to the trivialities of sentiment or passion which--as she had always told poor Chris--made her absolutely capable of taking care of herself in any situation. 'No, thanks! I don't want another cigarette, and I'd rather not have a cherry-brandy before I go back; but you can tell the bearer to tell my _ayah_ to bring my cloak and overshoes in here. I told her to come and wait.' Mr. Lucanaster swore under his breath. 'Oh! I don't think it was quite so bad as that,' she continued cheerfully, ignoring the palpable cause of his annoyance. 'It really was quite jolly at first, and nothing could have been better done. It was that little fool Jones with his cock-and-bull story of a row in the city; and then the dresses, you know, made one a bit shivery, thinking of the Mutiny. It did--even me--and I'm not that sort. But you couldn't help that, you know--your part of it was perfect.' He looked at her grimly, his determination not to be played with in this fashion growing. 'Not quite!' he answered. 'There was yet one thing lacking; one thing that I had meant to have secured--only I could not--you were so late in coming.' 'I?' she asked curiously. 'Was it something to do with me, then?' 'With the perfection of your dress--it needs something!' She coloured up pink as her roses, and gave a hurried glance at a mirror opposite. 'I do not see it,' she said angrily. 'Yes, you do!' he persisted, looking in the mirror also. 'There is something wanted _here_.' He pointed to her white throat, and in the mirror his hand pointed to it also. 'Ah'h,' she sighed thoughtfully.--'Yes! pearls--but I had no real ones. And--and I can stand paste--but somehow sham pearls----!'