Arnold glanced across the room. Mr. Starling was apparently a
middle-aged man--clean-shaven, with pale cheeks and somewhat narrow
eyes.

"An American, without a doubt," Arnold remarked.

"Quite right. Now the lady in the gray satin with the wonderful
coiffure--she has looked at you already more than once. Her name is
Lady Blennington, and she is always trying to discover new young
men."

Arnold glanced at her deliberately and back again at his hostess.

"There is nothing for me to say about her," he declared.

"You are wonderful," she murmured. "That is so exactly what one
feels about Lady Blennington. Then there is Lady Templeton--that
fluffy little thing behind my husband. She looks rather as though
she had come out of a toy shop, does she not?"

"She looks nice," Arnold admitted. "I knew--"

She glanced up at him and waited. Arnold, however, had stopped
short.

"You have not yet told me," he said, "the name of the man who stands
alone near the door--the one with the little piece of red ribbon in
his coat?"

It seemed to him that, for some reason, the presence of that