pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid,
is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white
roses in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. A
door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in evening dress,
comes downstairs. He is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build,
rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-coloured face,
whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He
speaks before he reaches the bottom.

SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for?

FREDA. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. Keith, Sir
William, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for their first evening.

SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the drawing-room] Your
father coming up to-night?

FREDA. Yes.

SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him
here after dinner, will you?

FREDA. Yes, Sir William.

SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if
he's got it.

He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly
tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of
skirts CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a