or the patronage and
favour meted out to her by this cosmopolitan company, with its lavish
sprinkling of the uniforms of an alien army.

Prominent among the flowers at her feet was one large golden-petalled
bouquet of gorgeous blooms, tied with a broad streamer of golden riband,
the tribute rendered by Caesar to the things that were Caesar's. The new
chapter of the fait accompli had been written that night and written
well. The audience poured slowly out with the triumphant music of
Jancovius's Kaiser Wilhelm march, played by the orchestra as a happy
inspiration, pealing in its ears.

"It has been a great evening, a most successful evening," said Lady
Shalem to Herr von Kwarl, whom she was conveying in her electric brougham
to Cicely Yeovil's supper party; "an important evening," she added,
choosing her adjectives with deliberation. "It should give pleasure in
high quarters, should it not?"

And she turned her observant eyes on the impassive face of her companion.

"Gracious lady," he replied with deliberation and meaning, "it has given
pleasure. It is an evening to be remembered."

The gracious lady suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. Memory in high
places was a thing fruitful and precious beyond computation.

Cicely's party at the Porphyry Restaurant had grown to imposing
dimensions. Every one whom she had asked had come, and so had Joan
Mardle. Lady Shalem had suggested several names at the last moment, and
there was quite a strong infusion of the Teutonic military and official
world. It was just as well, Cicely reflected, that the supper was being
given at a restaurant and not in Berkshire Street.

"Quite like ole times," purred the beaming proprietor in Cicely's ear, as
the staircase and cloak-rooms filled up with a jostling, laughing throng.

The guests settled themselves at four tables, taking their places where
chance or fancy led them, late comers having to fit in wherever they
could find room. A babel of tongues in various languages reigned round
the tables, amid which the rattle of knives and forks and plates and the
popping of corks made a subdued hubbub. Gorla Mustelford, the motive for
all this sound and movement, this chatter of guests and scurrying of
waiters, sat motionless in the fatigued self-conscious silence of a great
artist who has delivered a great message.

"Do sit at Lady Peach's table, like a dear boy," Cicely begged of Tony
Luton, who had come in late; "she and Gerald Drowly