begged Olive to
"arrange" things a little. She was so afraid that he would get excited
if he found himself surrounded entirely by men who were of the
Government or on its side.

"Poor dear," Olive now whispered. "You're so pale. I'm sure it's
anxiety. Don't be anxious. I've put Cecil at the uttermost end from
Jack. Poor, darling Jack _does_ so irritate him with his honest
platitudes. _I_ know! Then he'll have that rabid Radical, Cunnynham
Smythe, near by. He'd have to out-Herod Herod you know, to fall foul of
Cunny Smythe. And there's the Russian Ambassador, Suberov, opposite. You
told me that Cecil read the Russians, didn't you? Well--that ought to be
soothing. I've gathered all the ultra-Tories at _my_ end. Amaldi's to
take you in, and I've put Oswald Tyne on your right--two poets together,
you know. There's that provoking Sybil Chassilis--at least half an hour
late----"

She went forward to greet Lady Chassilis, and Amaldi came up to Sophy.
She saw her husband glance their way, then deliberately turn his back
and begin talking to the man next him. Something in that great, stolid,
well-shaped back struck Sophy as ominous. She felt herself grow even
paler. Her very lips felt cold as they rested on each other. She was
filled with a presentiment of coming disaster. But, somehow, as she
looked into Amaldi's eyes and listened to his quiet voice, a feeling of
reassurance stole over her. This feeling was wholly without reason. It
was only that his mere presence seemed to give her a feeling of safety,
as on that first occasion of their meeting.

"Did Bobby approve of my offering?" he asked, noticing her extreme
pallor. He thought that she looked even more lovely pale like this.

"Yes. It was good of you. He went to sleep with the little boat in his
arms."

Here Oswald Tyne approached. He was one of the most remarkable
characters of his day. Years ago, when she was a schoolgirl, Sophy had
heard him lecture in her own country. He himself had then been a youth
but just graduated from Oxford. She remembered him, a slender, poetic
figure. Now he was a heavy, middle-aged man. The long face had become
jowled; the light irises of his eyes showed too broad a crescent of
white below them. The sensual, heavy-lipped, good-natured mouth seemed
to weigh upon the chin, creasing it downward. He was always delightful
to Sophy, but she always felt ill-at-ease with him. This feeling was
obscure to her herself. She had never tried to analy