or me, I play because all are
polite enough to wish it, but conversation disturbs me not in the
least."

Peter passed, smiling, on to the corner pointed out by his companion,
which was the darkest and most secluded in the room. He took her fan and
gloves, lit her cigarette, and leaned back by her side.

"How does your brother, a stranger to London, find time to make the
acquaintance of so many interesting people?" he asked.

"He brought many letters," she replied. "He has friends everywhere."

"I have an idea," Peter remarked, "that an acquaintance of my own, the
Count von Hern, spoke to me once about him."

She took her cigarette from her lips and turned her head slightly.
Peter's expression was one of amiable reminiscence. His cheeks were a
trifle flushed; his appearance was entirely reassuring. She laughed at
her brother's caution. She found her companion delightful.

"Yes, the Count von Hern is a friend of my brother's," she admitted
carelessly.

"And of yours?" he whispered, his arm slightly pressed against hers.

She laughed at him silently and their eyes met. Decidedly Peter, Baron
de Grost, found it hard to break away from his old weakness. Andrea
Korust, from his place near the piano, breathed a sigh of relief as he
watched. A moment or two later, however, Mademoiselle Korust was obliged
to leave her companion to receive a late but unimportant guest, and
almost simultaneously Colonel Mayson passed by on his way to the farther
end of the apartment. Andrea Korust was bending over the piano to give
some instructions to his accompanist. Peter leaned forward and his face
and tone were strangely altered.

"You will find General Noseworthy of the Indian Army a little
inquisitive, Colonel," he remarked.

The latter turned sharply round. There was meaning in those few words,
without doubt! There was meaning, too, in the still, cold face which
seemed to repel his question. He passed on thoughtfully. Mademoiselle
Korust, with a gesture of relief, came back and threw herself once more
upon the couch.

"We must talk in whispers," she said gaily. "Andrea always declares that
he does not mind conversation, but too much noise is, of course,
impossible. Besides, Mademoiselle Celaire will not spare you to me for
long."

"There is a whole language," he replied, "which was made for whisperers.
And as for Mademoiselle Celaire----"

"Well?"

He laughed softly.

"Mademoiselle Celaire is, I think, more your brother