pper parties are just a
little--shall I say banal? There are better things if one waits!"

XVI

The reception-rooms of Seyre House, by some people considered the finest
in London, were crowded that night by a brilliant and cosmopolitan
assembly. For some time John stood by the prince's side and was
introduced to more people than he had ever met before in his life.
Presently, however, he was discovered by his friend Amerton.

"Queer thing your being here, a friend of the prince and all that!" the
young man remarked. "Where's Miss Sophy this evening?"

"I haven't seen her," John replied. "I don't believe she is invited."

"Did you hear that Calavera is coming?" Amerton inquired.

John nodded.

"She's expected any moment. I wonder what she's like off the stage!"

"You wait and see," Lord Amerton sighed. "There isn't another woman in
Europe to touch her. Why, they say that even our host is one of her
victims. Like to be introduced to some of the girls, or shall we go and
have a drink?"

John was hesitating when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. The prince's
voice sounded in his ear.

"Strangewey," he said, "I am privileged to present you to Mme. Aida
Calavera. _Madame_, this is the friend of whom I spoke to you."

John turned away from the little group of girls and young men toward
whom Amerton had been leading him. Even though the prince's speech had
given him a moment's breathing-space, he felt himself constrained to
pause before he made his bow of ceremony.

The woman was different from anything he had imagined, from anything he
had ever seen. In the ballet a writhing, sensuous figure with every
gesture a note in the octave of passion, here she seemed the very
personification of a negative and striking immobility. She was slender,
not so tall as she had seemed upon the stage, dressed in white from head
to foot. Her face was almost marblelike in its pallor, her smooth, black
hair was drawn tightly over her ears, and her eyes were of the deepest
shade of blue.

During that momentary pause, while he searched among a confused mixture
of sensations for some formula of polite speech, John found time to
liken her in his mind to something Egyptian. She raised her hand, as he
bowed, with a gesture almost royal in its condescension. The prince,
with quiet tact, bridged over the moment during which John struggled in
vain for something to say.

"Mr. Strangewey," he remarked,