He writes all those books that no one can understand--and those clever plays, you know, that every one goes to see."

"Does he really? Fancy! Can you point me out the man who wrote, 'Oh the Little Crimson Pansies' and 'The Garden of Alice'? I love his work. It's so weird. F. J. Rivers, you know."

"My dear Miss Winter, what a dreadful thing! I'm afraid you'll be very disappointed. As a matter of fact, I am F. J. Rivers myself. Isn't it a pity? I'm so sorry. And I'm afraid I am not weird. Do forgive me. I'd be weird in a minute if I could. You know that, I'm sure. Don't you?"

"Fancy! Just fancy!" She blushed crimson. "I was being so natural. I had no idea I was talking to a clever person."

"No wonder!"

"You see, I'm interested in things. I particularly love the intellectual atmosphere of this house, and I read all the serious magazines and things, the _Bookman_ and the _Sat.u.r.day Review_ and the _Sketch_; and so on."

"Should you say the atmosphere was really so intellectual here?" said Rivers a little doubtfully.

The Viennese Band was playing _Caresses_ in its most Viennese way; people were gaily coming up from supper or coquettishly going down, or sitting in corners _a deux_, dreamily. The heavy scent of red rosebuds hung over all. So becoming was the background at this particular moment that nearly every woman looked fair and every man brave....

"I'm afraid--I mean, I suppose--you take what they call an intelligent interest in the subjects of the day, Miss Winter?"

"I should think so, indeed!" she answered.

"Oh dear!" Rivers looked depressed as he tried to remember what he knew about Radium and Russia.

"Somehow I don't feel frightened of _you_," she said. "Will you take me to have a cup of tea?"

He escorted her downstairs, endeavouring to make up for any disappointment she might feel by pointing out with reckless lavishness Mr. Chamberlain, Beerbohm Tree, Arthur Balfour, Madame Melba, Filsen Young, George Alexander, and Winston Churchill, none of whom, by a curious coincidence, happened to be present.

"Surely I may talk to you a moment," Woodville murmured to Sylvia.

"Every one's happy eating, and you needn't bother. Just come out, one second--on the verandah through the little room. After all, I'm a friend of the family!"

"Why, so you are!"

She fluttered out with him through the French window of the little conversation room to a part of the garden that had been boarded and enclosed, forming with its striped awning and j.a.panese lanterns a kind of verandah. No one was in sight.

"This is the first second to-night I haven't been utterly wretched,"

said Woodville firmly.

"Oh, Frank! How kind of you to talk like that!"

"How beautiful of you to look like that!--And this is the sort of thing I have to stand--utterly ignored--I suppose you know I worship you? Do you really belong to me, Sylvia?"

"Oh, Frank! Why, I _love_ you!"

"Do you really?"

"Of course. Look here, don't tell any one--not even yourself--but I'm wearing the little locket after all."

The kiss was short but disturbing. As they came down to earth with a shock, they saw, looking at them steadily through the half-open window, Mr. Ridokanaki. He seemed interested.

At a look from Sylvia Mr. Woodville faded away, feeling as if he were sneaking off. Sylvia went indoors.

"Good evening, Miss Crofton," said the harsh yet sympathetic pleasant voice; "I have been seeking you since this half-hour.... I was coming to ask if I might have the great honour of taking you to supper. Of course, it is an immense privilege--far more than I might expect. Still, may I venture to hope?"

"With pleasure," said Sylvia. She took his arm.

"It is very kind of you, Miss Crofton. What a very interesting face that young man has!"

"Which young man?" Sylvia asked innocently.

"The young man who was in the garden. I am sure he is clever. Your father's--er--secretary, I think? _What_ did you say his name was, again?"

"His name is Mr. Woodville. Yes, I think he is clever. Quite an old friend, you know," Sylvia added rather lamely.

One could see no difference in the Greek, since he talked on in his usual urbane way, and made no allusion of any sort the whole evening, either to the floral tribute he had sent, to his letter to Sir James, or to the little scene he had interrupted.

In the supper-room all was gaiety and laughter.

"How hollow all this sort of thing is, isn't it?" said De Valdez, presenting Felicity with a plover's egg, as he pa.s.sed carrying a plate laden with them to some one else.

"They do seem rather hungry, don't they? But why aren't you eating any supper, Mr. Wilton?"

Having done her duty to all her old friends, Felicity was occupying herself very congenially by steadily bowling over a completely new young man. It was Bertie Wilton, whom Mrs. Ogilvie had brought on the grounds that he could have danced if it had been a dance, and that he was the son of Lady Nora Wilton. Felicity was very much pleased with his condition. It seemed most promising, considering she had known him about a quarter of an hour.

"Supper! I should think two hot plates, one strawberry, and a sip of champagne more than enough for a person who is falling every moment more and more--Don't take that plover's egg, Lady Chetwode! It isn't fair!

You have given me the sole right to provide for you this evening, and that man has no business to come interfering. Let him attend to his own affairs."

"He only dropped one plover's egg on my plate, as an old friend--out of kindness! He meant no harm," pleaded Felicity.

"Yes, that's all very well, but it was a liberty. It implies that I cannot provide you with all that you require. He must learn better." Mr.

Wilton firmly removed the plover's egg and placed it on the next table, at which Rivers and the red-haired girl were still chattering volubly.

Rivers immediately brought it back as lost property, courteously presenting it to Felicity on a silver salver.

"This is becoming unbearable! I shall have to write to the _Times_."

Wilton gave the egg to a waiter and a furious glance at Rivers, and then sat down again. He was remarkably good-looking with his sparkling blue eyes and mischievous expression, and Felicity glanced at him with approval. He would do very well--for the evening. He was quite worth powder--and shot. At least, he was, to her, a perfect stranger, and there was a great dearth of spring novelties at the party to-night.

"I've been waiting for you for years," said Bertie Wilton in a soft, low, impressive voice.

"Fancy! How patient of you!--How did you know it was me?"

"Oh, instantaneous-sympathy, I suppose."

"On your side, do you mean? I should call it telepathy, or perhaps--conceit."

"Call it what you like. But how is it you're so wonderful? Tell me that."

"I can't think," she said dreamily.

"I'm certain I met you in a previous existence," continued the young man.