but slightly. She alone seemed to be taking an interest in the
performance, which from the first she had followed closely. More than
once Wrayson had fancied that her attention was only simulated, in order
to avoid conversation.

"This ballet," she remarked, "is wonderful. I don't believe that you
people have seen any of it--you especially, Amy."

The Baroness glanced towards the stage.

"My dear Louise," she said, "you share one great failing with the
majority of your country-people. You cannot do more than one thing at a
time. Now I can watch and talk. Truly, the dresses are ravishing.
Doucet never conceived anything more delightful than that blend of
greens! Tell me about your mysterious-looking friend, Mr. Wrayson. Is
he, too, an editor?"

Wrayson shook his head.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I know very little about him. He is
one of those men who seldom talk about themselves. He is a barrister, and
he has written a volume of travels. A clever fellow, I believe, but
possibly without ambition. At any rate, one never hears of his doing
anything now."

"Perhaps," the Baroness remarked, with her eyes upon the stage, "he is
one of those who keep their own counsel, in more ways than one. He does
not look like a man who has no object in life."

Wrayson glanced downwards at the empty stall.