is to be a fashionable one?"

"No," replied, Smith, shortly. "Weddings in fashionable churches are
silly unless there's to be a crowd; and my wife and I are going to
collect our circle after we're married. I'll let you know in time where
we are going. As you'll be with the bride you can't lose yourself on the
way, so you needn't worry."

"I don't!" laughed the Countess. "I'm at your service, and I shall try to
be worthy of the occasion. But now I shall take myself off, or your
coffee will be cold. You have a busy day and it's late--even later than
our breakfasts on the _Monarchic_ three weeks ago. Already it seems three
months. _Au revoir_, Don. _Au revoir_, Miss Grayle."

She finished with a nod for Annesley, and turned away. Smith let her go
in silence; and the girl watched the tall figure--as perfect in shape and
as perfectly dressed as a French model--walk out of the restaurant into
the foyer.

She seemed to have taken with her the golden glamour which had made up
for lack of sunshine in the room before her arrival; or if she had not
taken it, at least it was dimmed. Annesley gazed after the figure until
it disappeared, because she felt vaguely that it would be best not to
look at her companion just then. She knew that he was angry, and that he
wanted to compose himself.

The Countess was as handsome by morning light, in her black velvet and
chinchilla, as at night in flame colour and gold. But--the girl hoped she
was not ill-natured--she looked _meretricious_. If she were "made up,"
the process defied Annesley Grayle's eyes; yet surely never was skin so