Thus soliloquising, he reached the dining-room. The scene that unfolded
itself before him was typical--the table over-loaded, the women
over-dressed.

The luncheon was already in full course when he came. He mumbled an
apology and seated himself on the only remaining chair next to a youth
who reminded him of a well-dressed dummy. With slight weariness his eyes
wandered in all directions for more congenial faces when they were
arrested by a lady on the opposite side of the table. She was clad in a
silk robe with curiously embroidered net-work that revealed a nervous
and delicate throat. The rich effect of the net-work was relieved by the
studied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut-colored hair was
gathered in a single knot. Her face was turned away from him, but there
was something in the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar.
When at last she looked him in the face, the glass almost fell from his
hand: it was Ethel Brandenbourg. She seemed to notice his embarrassment
and smiled. When she opened her lips to speak, he knew by the haunting
sweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken.

"Tell me," she said wistfully, "you have forgotten me? They all have."

He hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her. He recollected
now that he had first been introduced to her in Walkham's house some
years ago, when a mere college boy, he had been privileged to attend one
of that master's famous receptions. She had looked quite resolute and
very happy then, not at all like the woman who had stared so strangely
at Reginald in the Broadway restaurant.

He regarded this encounter as very fortunate. He knew so much of her