If everybody was not enjoying himself at the Villa it certainly was not the fault of the host, Sir Stephen Orme. Howard, as he drew his chair up beside Stafford, when the ladies had left the room after dinner, and the gentlemen had begun to glance longingly at the rare Chateau claret and the Windermere port, made a remark to this effect:

"Upon my word, Staff, it is the most brilliant house-party which I have ever joined; and as to your father in his character of host--Well, words fail to express my admiration."

Stafford glanced at his father at the head of the table and nodded. Sir Stephen had been the life and soul and spring of the dinner; talking fashionable gossip to Lady Fitzharford on one side of him, and a "giddy girl of twenty" on the other; exchanging badinage with "Bertie," and telling deeply interesting stories to the men; and he was now dragging reluctant laughter from the grim Baron Wirsch and the almost grimmer Griffenberg, as he saw with one eye that the wine was circulating, and with the other that no one was being overlooked or allowed to drop into dullness.

"A most marvellous man! Nearly all the morning he was closeted with the financiers; in the afternoon he went for a ride with Lady Clansford; he was in attendance at the solemn function of afternoon tea; he played croquet--and played it well--at half-past five; at six I saw him walking round the grounds with the Effords and the Fitzharfords, and now he is laughing and talking with the _abandon_ of a boy of five-and-twenty, while the boy of five-and-twenty sits here as grave and silent as if he had been working like a horse--or a Sir Stephen Orme--instead of fooling about the lake with the most beautiful woman in the party."

"And his friend has spent the day in a deck-chair on the terrace,"

retorted Stafford.

"At any rate, I have been out of mischief," said Howard. Then he remembered his wager with Maude Falconer, and added, rather remorsefully: "At least I hope so. By the way, don't you echo my expression of opinion that Miss Falconer is the most beautiful woman here--or elsewhere?"

Stafford woke from the reverie into which he nearly always dropped when Howard was talking, and nodded indifferently.

"Oh, yes; she is lovely, of course."

"How good of you, how kind and gracious!" retorted Howard, ironically.

"So my prince deigns to approve of her? And you also condescended to admit that she is--er--rather clever?"

"I daresay," said Stafford. "I've seen so little of her. She seems to me rather _blase_ and cold."

Howard nodded.

"Yes; but the worst of it is, you can't count upon that kind of girl: they are apt to warm up sometimes, and quite unexpectedly: and when they do they--well, they boil like a geyser or a volcano. And then--well, then it is wise to get out of reach. I once knew a woman who was considered to be as cold as charity--or a rich relation--but who caught fire one day and burnt up the man who ignited her. Of course this is my delicate way of saying: 'Beware, oh, my prince!'"

Stafford smiled. Miss Falconer's nature was a matter of profound indifference to him. There was only one woman on whom he could bestow a thought, and he was thinking of her now, wondering when he should see her, whether he might dare to tell her of his love again, to ask her for her answer.

Once or twice his father looked across at him, and nodded and smiled as if he loved to see him, and wanted to speak to him; and Stafford smiled and nodded back, as if he understood.

When the men rose to go to the drawing-room, Sir Stephen caught him up at the door, and laid a hand upon his arm.

"Happy, dear boy?" he asked in a low voice, full of affection. "I've seen scarcely anything of you. No, no, I'm not complaining! It was understood that you were to have a free hand--but--but I've missed you!

Never mind; this crowd will have gone presently, and then--ah, then we'll have a jolly time to ourselves! Things are going well," he added, with a significant smile, as he glanced at Wirsch and Griffenberg, who, well-fed and comfortable, were in front of them.

"I'm glad, sir," said Stafford.

Sir Stephen smiled, but checked a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders.

"Yes, my little schemes are flourishing; but"--he looked at the financiers again--"they are rather a hard team to drive!"

As Stafford entered the drawing-room, he heard Lady Clansford enquiring for Miss Falconer.

"We want her to sing, Mr. Orme, and I cannot find her."

"I think she is on the terrace," said Bertie, who always seemed to know where everybody was.

Stafford went out by one of the windows, and saw Maude Falconer pacing up and down at the end of the terrace. She was superbly dressed, and as he looked at her, he involuntarily admired the grace of her movements.

Mr. Falconer was walking with bent head and hands behind his back; but now and again he looked at her sideways with his sharp eyes. Stafford did not like to interrupt them, and withdrew to the other end of the terrace, with a cigarette, to wait till they joined him.

"Young Orme has come out to look for you," said Mr. Falconer, without turning his head.

"I know," she said, though she also had not turned. "They want me to sing. I will go in directly. You have not answered my question, father.

Is Sir Stephen very rich, or is all this only sham? I have heard you say so often that display very often only covers poverty."

Falconer eyed her curiously.

"Why do you want to know? What does it matter to you?"

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, resentfully, and he went on:

"Yes, he's rich; confoundedly so. But he is playing a big game, in which he is running some risks; and he'll want all his money to help him win it."

"And are you joining him in the game?" she asked.

He looked at her with surprise. There was a note in her voice which he had never heard before, a note which conveyed to him the fact that she was no longer a girl, but a woman.

"Upon my soul, I don't know why you ask! Well, well!"--she had repeated the impatient gesture. "I haven't made up my mind yet. He wants me to join him. I could be of service to him; on the other hand, I could--yes, get in his way; for I know some of the points of the game he is playing. Yes, I could help him--or spoil him."

"And which are you going to do?" she asked, in a low voice, her eyes veiled, her lips drawn straight.

Falconer laughed grimly. "I don't know. It all depends. Which would you do?" he asked, half sarcastically.

She was silent for a moment, then she said: "You knew Sir Stephen some time ago--years ago, father?"

Falconer nodded. "I did," he said, shortly.

"And you were friends, and you quarrelled?"

He looked at her with an air of surprise.

"I saw you both when you stood opposite each other after the carriage accident," she said, coolly. "I am not blind, and I am not particularly stupid. It didn't strike me at the time that there had been anything wrong between you, but I have since seen you look at Sir Stephen, and--you have an expressive face sometimes, oh, my father!"

He grinned grimly.

"You appear to keep your eyes open, Maude. Yes; there was a row between us, and there was a grudge--"

--"Which you mean to pay off?" she said, as impa.s.sively as if they were speaking of the merest trivialities.

"Which I could pay off--gratify, if I liked," he admitted.

"How?" she asked.

He did not reply, but glanced at her sideways and bit at the cigar which he had stopped to light.

"Shall I tell you, if I were a man and I wanted revenge upon such a man as Sir Stephen Orme, what I should do, father?" she asked, in a low voice, and looking straight before her as if she were meditating.

"You can if you like. What would you do?" he replied, with a touch of sarcastic amus.e.m.e.nt.