months before, young Alfred Evershed
had received the same impression, may be doubted. In all things Eugenie
de Netteville was an artist.

Suddenly the curtain dividing them from the larger drawing-room was
drawn back, and Sir John Headlam stood in the doorway. He had the
glittering amused eyes of a malicious child as he looked at them.

'Very sorry, Madame,' he began in his high cracked voice, 'but
Wharncliffe and I are off to the New Club to see Desforets. They have
got her there to-night.'

'Go,' she said, waving her hand to him, 'I don't envy you. She is not
what she was.'

'No, there is only one person,' he said, bowing with grotesque little
airs of gallantry, 'for whom time stands still.'

Madame de Netteville looked at him with smiling, half-contemptuous
serenity. He bowed again, this time with ironical emphasis, and
disappeared.

'Perhaps I had better go and send them off,' she said, rising. 'But you
and I have not had our talk out yet.'

She led the way into the drawing-room. Lady Aubrey was lying back on
the velvet sofa, a little green paroquet that was accustomed to wander
tamely about the room was perching on her hand. She was holding the
field against Lord Rupert and Mr. Addlestone in a three-cornered duel
of wits, while M. de Querouelle sat by, his plump hands on his knees,
applauding.

They all rose as their hostess came in.

'My dear,' said Lady Aubrey, 'it is disgracefully early, but my country
before pleasure. It is the Foreign Office to-night, and since James
took office I can't with decency absent myself. I had rather be a
scullery-maid than a minister's wife. Lord Rupert, I will take you on if
you want a lift.'

She touched Madame de Netteville's cheek with her lips, nodding to the
other men present, and went out, her fair stag-like head well in the
air, 'chaffing' Lord Rupert, who obediently followed her, performing
marvellous feats of agility in his desire to keep out of the way of the
superb train sweeping behind her. It always seemed as if Lady Aubrey
could have had no childhood, as if she must always have had just that
voice and those eyes. Tears she could never have shed, not even as a
baby over a broken toy. Besides, at no period of her life could she have
looked upon a lost possession as anything else than the opportunity for
a new one.

The other men took their departure for one reason or another. It was
not late, but London was in full swing, and M. de Querouelle talked with