he door was thrown open, not by servants, but by a merry, curious crowd
of ladies and gentlemen, anxious to see the arrival of the belated, no
doubt much talked of, automobile. Light streamed out from a great hall,
which seemed, at first glance, to be half full of people in evening
dress, girls and young men, gay and laughing. Everybody was talking at
the same time, chattering both English and French, nobody listening to
anybody else, all intent on having a glimpse of the car. I believe they
were disappointed not to see it battered by some accident; sensations
are so dear to the hearts of idle ones.

Sir Samuel Turnour came out, with two young men and a couple of girls,
while Lady Turnour, afraid of the cold, remained on the threshold in a
group of other women among whom she was violently conspicuous by the
blazing of her jewels. The others were all in dinner dress, with very
few jewels. She had attempted to atone for her blouse and short skirt by
putting on all her diamonds and a rope or two of pearls. Poor woman! I
knew her capable of much. I had not supposed her capable of this.

Instinct told me that one of the young men with Sir Samuel was the
Marquis de Roquemartine, and I trembled with physical dread, as if under
a lifted lash, of his greeting to Jack. But the _pince-nez_ over
prominent, near-sighted eyes, gave me hope that my chauffeur might be
spared an unpleasant ordeal. Joy! the Marquis did not appear to
recognize him, and neither did the Marquise, if she were one of the
young women who had run out to the car. Maybe, if he could escape
recognition now, he might escape altogether. Once swept away among the
flotsam and jetsam below stairs, he would be both out of sight and out
of mind. I did not care about myself now, only for him, and I was
beginning to cheer up a little, when I noticed that the other young man
was gazing at the chauffeur very intently.

His flushed face, and small fair moustache, his light eyes and hair,
looked as English as the Marquis' short, pointed chestnut beard and
sleek hair _en brosse_, looked French. "Bertie!" I said to myself,
flashing a glance at him from under my veil.

Bertie, if Bertie it was, did not speak. He simply stared, mechanically
pulling an end of his tiny moustache, while Sir Samuel talked. But he
was so much interested in his stepfather's chauffeur that when the
really very pretty girl near him spoke, over his shoulder, he did not
hear.

"Well, we began to think