do so. She wanted to see
Rudyard Byng, for South Africa and its shadow was ever present with
her; and she dreaded she knew not what. Blantyre was still her husband,
and he might return--and return still less a man than when he deserted
her those sad long years ago. Also, she wanted to see Jigger, because
of his sister Lou, whose friendless beauty, so primitively set, whose
transparent honesty appealed to her quick, generous impulses. Last of
all she wanted to see Adrian in the surroundings and influences where
his days had been constantly spent during the past three years.

Never before had she had the curiosity to do so. Adrian had, however,
deftly but clearly tried to dissuade her from coming to Glencader, and
his reasons were so new and unconvincing that, for the first time,--she
had a nature of strange trustfulness once her faith was given--a vague
suspicion concerning Adrian perplexed and troubled her. His letter had
arrived some hours after Jasmine's, and then her answer was
immediate--she would accept. Adrian heard of the acceptance first
through Jasmine, to whom he had spoken of his long "acquaintance" with
the great singer.

From Byng's look, as they moved towards the hall, Adrian gathered that
rumour had reached a quarter where he had much at stake; but it did not
occur to him that this would be to his disadvantage. Byng was a man of
the world. Besides, he had his own reasons for feeling no particular
fear where Byng was concerned. His glance ran from Byng's face to that
of Jasmine; but, though her eyes met his, there was nothing behind her
glance which had to do with Al'mah.

In the great hall whose windows looked out on a lovely, sunny valley
still as green as summer, the rest of the house-party were gathered,
and Jigger's visitors were at once surrounded.

Among the visitors were Alice, Countess of Tynemouth, also the
Slavonian ambassador, whose extremely pale face, stooping shoulders,
and bald head with the hair carefully brushed over from each side in a
vain attempt to cover the baldness, made him seem older than he really
was. Count Landrassy had lived his life in many capitals up to the
limit of his vitality, and was still covetous of notice from the sex
who had, in a checkered career, given him much pleasure, and had
provided him with far more anxiety. But he was almost uncannily able
and astute, as every man found who entered the arena of diplomacy to
treat with him or circumvent him. Suavity, wit