lights of the heavy chandeliers; its grey panelling, hidden here and
there by tapestries, and its series of deep, arched windows that
gave glimpses of a lantern-hung terrace. Out there, beyond a marble
balustrade, the lights of fishing schooners tossed on a blue-black
ocean. The same ocean on which she had looked that morning, and which
she heard now, in the intervals of talk and laughter, crashing against
the cliffs,--although the wind had gone down. Like a woman stirred to
the depths of her being, its bosom was heaving still at the memory of
the passion of the morning.

This night after the storm was capriciously mild, the velvet gown of
heaven sewn with stars. The music had ceased, and supper was being
served at little tables on the terrace. The conversation was desultory.

"Who is that with Reggie Farwell?" Ethel Wing asked.

"It's the Farrenden girl," replied Mr. Cuthbert, whose business it was
to know everybody. "Chicago wheat. She looks like Ceres, doesn't she?
Quite becoming to Reggie's dark beauty. She was sixteen, they tell me,
when the old gentleman emerged from the pit, and they packed her off to
a convent by the next steamer. Reggie may have the blissful experience
of living in one of his own houses if he marries her."

The fourth at the table was Ned Carrington, who had been first secretary
at an Embassy, and he had many stories to tell of ambassadors who spoke
commercial American and asked royalties after their wives. Some one had
said about him that he was the only edition of the Almanach de Gotha
that included the United States. He somewhat resembled a golden seal
emerging from a cold bath, and from time to time screwed an eyeglass
into his eye and made a careful survey of Mrs. Grenfell's guests.

"By George!" he exclaimed. "Isn't that Hugh Chiltern?"

Honora started, and followed the direction of Mr. Carrington's glance.
At sight of him, a vivid memory of the man's personality possessed her.

"Yes," Cuthbert was saying, "that's Chiltern sure enough. He came in on
Dicky Farnham's yacht this morning from New York."

"This morning!" said Ethel Wing. "Surely not! No yacht could have come
in this morning."

"Nobody but Chiltern would have brought one in, you mean," he corrected
her. "He sailed her. They say Dicky was half dead with fright, and
wanted to put in anywhere. Chiltern sent him below and kept right on.
He has a devil in him, I believe. By the way, that's Dicky Farnham's
ex-wife he's talki