grey flecked with gold, and shaded
by long dark lashes. Altogether there was about her the clear beauty
of a star, which even the traces of emotion now discernible could not
dim.

And her companion--what was he like? Esther glanced at him and gave a
start. It was the young Englishman who had come out of the doctor's
house, the man she had seen before somewhere--she still did not recall
where. Studied at close range he revealed points of interest. He was
dressed with that perfection crowned with negligence which the
Englishman of the upper classes so admirably achieves. He was, in
fact, unmistakably a gentleman, at least by birth, though his bored
manner held a hint of insolence, a suggestion of the bounder. His
hazel eyes, glancing about with irritable restlessness, were curiously
devoid of any depths, his mouth showed a mixture of weakness and
obstinacy, devil-may-care courage and lack of moral stamina. An
after-the-war product, no doubt, nervy and jumpy, frayed by stimulants
and late hours, and yet, with all this, attractive. Yes, curiously
attractive, there was no denying it.

"Waiter--where's that blasted waiter gone?"

He turned in Esther's direction, and for an instant his eyes met hers
and took her in, though with little show of interest. Seeing him
full-face she suddenly recalled him. Of course! When she and Miss
Ferriss had first arrived, they had seen him on two occasions lunching
in the Carlton grill, in company with a swarthy over-dressed
Spanish-looking woman and her daughter. She remembered now. Shrewd
old Miss Ferriss had said about him:

"Esther, that young Englishman over there is very nice-looking, but I
can tell you he's what we call at home a _cake-hound_. I can always
spot them!"

Esther smiled at the recollection.

"Waiter--bring me a 'doctor'--will you? And hold on--what do you want,
Therese?"

"_Rien--rien du tout. Non, tenez--du the de Chine, simplement._"

She took care of her looks, that was evident. The waiter gone, Esther
saw the Frenchwoman lean across to her companion with an obvious effort
of self-control.

"Arthur--tell me once more. What is it, this job you speak of?"

"What, the Argentine? I don't know. The Toda woman wants to take me
out there as a sort of manager or something. She sails on the eighth;
she expects me to go with her."

"T'ck! I knew it!"

The beautiful woman's voice rose shrilly with a strident note which was
an odd revelation.