the rest, I was just thinking what a stranger I felt."

"The man who talks French so well," Lady Anselman told him, dropping
her voice a little, "is Surgeon-Major Thomson. He is inspector of
hospitals at the front, or something of the sort. The tall, fair
girl--isn't she pretty!--is Geraldine Conyers, daughter of Admiral
Sir Seymour Conyers. That's her brother, the sailor over there,
talking to Olive Moreton; their engagement was announced last week.
Lady Patrick of course you know, and Signor Scobel, and Adelaide
Cunningham--you do know her, don't you, Mr. Daniell? She is my
dearest friend. How many do you make that?"

The publisher counted them carefully.

"Eleven including ourselves," he announced.

"And we should be twelve," Lady Anselman sighed. "Of course!" she
added, her face suddenly brightening. "What an idiot I am! It's
Ronnie we are waiting for. One can't be cross with him, poor fellow.
He can only just get about."

The fair girl, who had overheard, leaned across. The shade of newly
awakened interest in her face, and the curve of her lips as she
spoke, added to her charm. A gleam of sunlight flashed upon the
yellow-gold of her plainly coiled hair.

"Is it your nephew, Captain Ronald Granet, who is coming?" she asked
a little eagerly.

Lady Anselman nodded.