iddle-aged lady, Princess Torski, followed by her niece. There were a
few introductions still to be effected.

Whilst Lady Maltenby was engaged in this task, which she performed at
all times with the unfailing tact of a great hostess, Julian broke off
in his conversation with the two soldiers and looked steadfastly across
the room at Catherine Abbeway, as though anxious to revise or
complete his earlier impressions of her. She was of medium height, not
unreasonably slim, with a deliberate but noticeably graceful carriage.
Her complexion was inclined to be pale. She had large, soft brown eyes,
and hair of an unusual shade of chestnut brown, arranged with remarkably
effective simplicity. She wore a long string of green beads around her
neck, a black tulle gown without any relief of colour, but a little
daring in its cut. Her voice and laugh, as she stood talking to the
Bishop, were delightful, and neither her gestures nor her accent
betrayed the slightest trace of foreign blood. She was, without a doubt,
extraordinarily attractive, gracious almost to freedom in her manner,
and yet with that peculiar quality of aloofness only recognisable in the
elect,--a very appreciable charm. Julian found his undoubted admiration
only increased by his closer scrutiny. Nevertheless, as he watched
her, there was a slightly puzzled frown upon his forehead, a sense
of something like bewilderment mingled with those other feelings.
His mother, who had turned to speak to the object of his attentions,
beckoned him, and he crossed the room at once to their side.

"Julian is going to take you in to dinner, Miss Abbeway," the Countess
announced, "and I hope you will be kind to him, for he's been out all
night and a good part of the morning, too, shooting ducks and talking
nonsense with a terrible Socialist."

Lady Maltenby passed on. Julian, leaning on his stick, looked down with
a new interest into the face which had seldom been out of his thoughts
since their first meeting, a few weeks ago.

"Tell me, Mr. Orden," she asked, "which did you find the more
exhausting--tramping the marshes for sport, or discussing sociology with
your friend?"

"As a matter of fact," he replied, "we didn't tramp the marshes. We
stood still and got uncommonly wet. And I shot a goose, which made me
very happy."

"Then it must have been the conversation," she declared. "Is your friend
a prophet or only one of the multitude?"

"A prophet, most decidedly. He is a M