one of his gravest moods, as if he had barricaded himself round
with impenetrable reserve. There were two other guests, so Diana did
not twit him openly; she only murmured in an aside, for his ear alone,
"I'm so sorry it's a party, and we shall feel obliged to be polite.
This civilisation is becoming a positive burden."

Meryl was a little late, and she wore a beautiful gown, of a classic
cut, with exquisite classic embroideries and a filigree band on her
lovely hair. It was the first time he had seen her in evening dress,
and he took one keen, sweeping glance and then looked away. He had
rather the attitude of a soldier on parade, to whom the colonel had
said "eyes front." Only he was his own colonel, obeying his own laws
and restrictions. And Meryl only dared to take a fleeting glance also,
for fear her eyes might betray her. And though he looked as striking
as a man may, in immaculate evening dress, with his strong, clear-cut
features, and inches that dwarfed most men, with the inconsistency of
a woman she decided she liked him best in khaki that had seen hard
service, and that look of being all of a piece, because his hands and
face were so brown. He sat on her left, while Lord Elmsleigh, who was
passing through from the Victoria Falls, sat on her right; and though
she chatted lightly to his lordship, she was conscious every second of
the hour of the big, silent, rather grim soldier-policeman. He spoke
very little. Just an opinion now and then when he was asked for it, or
the corroboration or correction of a statement, when someone looked to
him questioningly. The millionaire, chatting in his quiet, weighty way
to his two other guests, noted everything. He knew that Carew and
Meryl scarcely once looked at each other, or addressed each other
direct, and with a deep sense of regret he had again that feeling of
being brought up against some barrier where neither his money nor
power nor influence could be of any avail. And at the same time he
knew in his heart that he had never met any man to whom he would
sooner entrust Meryl and the fortune that must be hers. For though
their very silence together revealed to his astute brain that neither
was indifferent to the other, he could not but see also that
undercurrent of grim determination in Carew. True, he was almost
always silent, but Henry Pym perceived that his silence to-day was not
quite of that of yesterday. Something had gone out of it--some quiet,
grave, unquestion