ood, the moral support, the cool-headed adviser, surrounded
by a crowd of brainless, empty-headed young fops, who were even now
repeating from mouth to mouth, and with every sign of the keenest
enjoyment, a doggerel quatrain which he had just given forth. Everywhere
the absurd, silly words met her: people seemed to have little else to
speak about, even the Prince had asked her, with a little laugh, whether
she appreciated her husband's latest poetic efforts.

"All done in the tying of a cravat," Sir Percy had declared to his
clique of admirers.

"We seek him here, we seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in heaven?--Is he in hell?
That demmed, elusive Pimpernel"

Sir Percy's BON MOT had gone the round of the brilliant reception-rooms.
The Prince was enchanted. He vowed that life without Blakeney would be
but a dreary desert. Then, taking him by the arm, had led him to the
card-room, and engaged him in a long game of hazard.

Sir Percy, whose chief interest in most social gatherings seemed to
centre round the card-table, usually allowed his wife to flirt, dance,
to amuse or bore herself as much as she liked. And to-night, having
delivered himself of his BON MOT, he had left Marguerite surrounded by
a crowd of admirers of all ages, all anxious and willing to help her to
forget that somewhere in the spacious reception rooms, there was a long,
lazy being who had been fool enough to suppose that the cleverest woman
in Europe would settle down to the prosaic bonds of English matrimony.

Her still overwrought nerves, her excitement and agitation, lent
beautiful Marguerite Blakeney much additional charm: escorted by a
veritable bevy of men of all ages and of most nationalities, she called
forth many exclamations of admiration from everyone as she passed.

She would not allow herself any more time to think. Her early, somewhat
Bohemian training had made her something of a fatalist. She felt that
events would shape themselves, that the directing of them was not in her
hands. From Chauvelin she knew that she could expect no mercy. He had
set a price on Armand's head, and left it to her to pay or not, as she
chose.

Later on in the evening she caught sight of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord
Antony Dewhurst, who seemingly had just arrived. She noticed at once
that Sir Andrew immediately made for little Suzanne de Tournay, and that
the two young people soon managed to isolate themselves i