The Frenchman raised his eyebrows. He knew better. This was no plain
English gentleman. He bowed and took his leave. M. de Chauxville of the
French Embassy was watching every movement, every change of expression,
from across the room.

In evening dress the man whom we last saw on the platform of the railway
station at Tver did not look so unmistakably English. It was more
evident that he had inherited certain characteristics from his Russian
mother--notably, his great height, a physical advantage enjoyed by many
aristocratic Russian families. His hair was fair and inclined to curl,
and there the foreign suggestion suddenly ceased. His face had the quiet
concentration, the unobtrusive self-absorption which one sees more
strongly marked in English faces than in any others. His manner of
moving through the well-dressed crowd somewhat belied the tan of his
skin. Here was an out-of-door, athletic youth, who knew how to move in
drawing-rooms--a big man who did not look much too large for his
surroundings. It was evident that he did not know many people, and also
that he was indifferent to his loss. He had come to see Mrs. Sydney
Bamborough, and that lady was not insensible to the fact.

To prove this she diverged from the path of veracity, as is the way of
some women.

"I did not expect to see you here," she said.

"You told me you were coming," he answered simply. The inference would
have been enough for some women, but not for Etta Sydney Bamborough.

"Well, is that a reason why you should attend a diplomatic soirée, and
force yourself to bow and smirk to a number of white-handed little