one else, but he probably won't come till later." She led the way
and everybody trooped downstairs to the dining-room, feeling that
disappointment was in store for them. Mrs. Bergmann left the place on
her right vacant; she did not dare fill it up, because in her heart of
hearts she felt certain Shakespeare would arrive, and she looked forward
to a _coup de theatre_, which would be quite spoilt if his place was
occupied. On her left sat Count Sciarra; the unknown friend of Angela
Lockton sat at the end of the table next to Willmott.

The luncheon started haltingly. Angela Lockton's friend was heard saying
in a clear voice that the dust in London was very trying.

"Have you come from the country?" asked M. Faubourg. "I myself am just
returned from Oxford, where I once more admired your admirable English
lawns--_vos pelouses seculaires_."

"Yes," said the stranger, "I only came up to town to-day, because it
seems indeed a waste and a pity to spend the finest time of the year in
London."

Count Sciarra, who had not uttered a word since he had entered the
house, turned to his hostess and asked her whom she considered, after
herself, to be the most beautiful woman in the room, Lady Irene, Lady
Hyacinth, or Mrs. Milden?

"Mrs. Milden," he went on, "has the smile of La Gioconda, and hands and
hair for Leonardo to paint. Lady Gloucester," he continued, leaving
out the Christian name, "is English, like one of Shakespeare's women,
Desdemona or Imogen; and Lady Irene has no nationality, she belongs to
the dream worlds of Shelley and D'Annunzio: she is the guardian Lady of