They reverberated up the fine old oak staircase to the luxurious Louis
XV bedroom, where Lady Margaret Trevert lay on her bed idly smiling
through an amusing novel. They crashed through the thickly padded baize
doors leading to the servants' hall, where, at sixpence a hundred,
Parrish's man, Jay, was partnering Lady Margaret's maid against Mrs.
Heever, the housekeeper, and Robert, the chauffeur, at a friendly game
of bridge. And they even boomed distantly into the far-away
billiard-room and broke into the talk which Robin Greve was having with
Mary Trevert.

"Damn!" exclaimed Greve savagely, as the distant gonging came to his
ears.

"It's the gong for tea," said Mary demurely.

She was sitting on one of the big leather sofas lining the long room.
Robin, as he gazed down at her from where he stood with his back against
the edge of the billiard-table, thought what an attractive picture she
made in the half-light.

The lamps over the table were lit, but the rest of the room was almost
dark. In that lighting the thickly waving dark hair brought out the fine
whiteness of the girl's skin. There was love, and a great desire for
love, in her large dark eyes, but the clear-cut features, the
well-shaped chin, and the firm mouth, the lips a little full, spoke of
ambition and the love of power.

"I've been here three whole days," said Robin, "and I've not had two
words with you alone, Mary. And hardly have I got you to myself for a
quiet game of pills when that rotten gong goes ..."