Lady Cantourne rose, and so did Jocelyn. “You know,” she said, looking up into the girl's face, “it is a good action. That is why I ask you to do it. It is not often that one has the opportunity of doing a good action to which even one's dearest friend cannot attribute an ulterior motive. Who is that man over there?” “That is my brother.” “I should like to know him; but do not bring him to-morrow. We women are better alone--you understand?” With a confidential little nod the good lady went away to attend to other affairs; possibly to carry through some more good actions of a safe nature. It was plain to Jocelyn that Maurice was looking for some one. He had just come, and was making his way through the crowd. Presently she managed to touch his elbow. “Oh, there you are!” he exclaimed; “I want you. Come out of this room.” He offered her his arm, and together they made their way out of the crowded room into a smaller apartment where an amateur reciter was hovering disconsolately awaiting an audience. “Here,” said Maurice, when they were alone, “I have just had this telegram.” He handed her the thin, white submarine telegraph-form with its streaks of adhesive text. “Relief entirely successful. Meredith Joseph returned Loango. Meredith bad health.” Jocelyn drew a deep breath. “So that's all right--eh?” said Maurice heartily. “Yes,” answered Jocelyn, “that is all right.” CHAPTER XXX. OLD BIRDS Angels call it heavenly joy; Infernal tortures the devils say; And men? They call it--Love. “By the way, dear,” said Lady Cantourne to her niece the next afternoon, “I have asked a Miss Gordon to come to tea this afternoon. I met her last night at the Fitzmannerings. She lives in Loango and knows Jack. I thought you might like to know her. She is exceptionally ladylike and rather pretty.” And straightway Miss Millicent Chyne went upstairs to put on her best dress. We men cannot expect to understand these small matters--these exigencies, as it were, of female life. But we may be permitted to note feebly en passant through existence that there are occasions when women put on their best clothes without the desire to please. And, while Millicent Chyne was actually attiring herself, Jocelyn Gordon, in another house not so far away, was busy with that beautiful hair of hers, patting here, drawing out there, pinning, poking, pressing with all the cunning that her fingers possessed. When they met a little later in Lady Cantourne's uncompromisingly solid and old-fashioned drawing-room, one may be certain that nothing was lost. “My aunt tells me,” began Millicent at once, with that degage treatment of certain topics hitherto held sacred which obtains among young folks to-day, “that you know Loango.” “Oh yes--I live there.” “And you know Mr. Meredith?” “Yes, and Mr. Oscard also.” There was a little pause, while two politely smiling pairs of eyes probed each other. “She knows something--how much?” was behind one pair of eyes.