CHAPTER II

Westward, the late June twilight deepened into a violet and moonless
darkness. The lights in St. James's Park glittered like motionless
fireflies; a faint wind rustled amongst the drooping leaves of the
trees. Up here the atmosphere was different. It seemed a long way from
Shoreditch.

Outside the principal of the official residences in Downing Street,
there was a tented passage-way and a strip of drugget across the
pavement. Within, the large reception rooms were crowded with men and
women. There was music, and many forms of entertainment were in
progress; the popping of champagne corks; the constant murmur of
cheerful conversation. The Prime Minister was giving a great political
reception, and men and women of every degree and almost every
nationality were talking and mingling together. The gathering was
necessarily not select, but it was composed of people who counted. The
Countess of Grenside, who was the Prime Minister's sister and the head
of his household, saw to that.

They stood together at the head of the staircase, a couple curiously
unlike not only in appearance but in disposition and tastes. Lady
Grenside was tall and fair, almost florid in complexion, remarkably
well-preserved, with a splendid presence and figure. She had been one
of the beauties of her day, and even now, in the sixth year of her
widowhood, was accounted a remarkably handsome woman. Mr. Foley, her
brother, was also tall, but gaunt and thin, with a pronounced stoop.
His grey imperial gave him an almost foreign appearance. He had the