"I was just saying to Lord Harrowby," Mrs. Bruce began, smiling about her, "how picturesque our business streets are here. What with the Greek merchants in their native costumes—"
"Bandits, every one of them," growled Mr. Bruce, bravely interrupting. His wife frowned.
"Only the other day," she continued, "I bought a rug from a man who claimed to be a Persian prince. He said it was a prayer-rug, and I think it must have been, for ever since I got it I've been praying it's genuine."
A little ripple of amusement ran about the table. The redoubtable Mrs. Bruce was under way. People spoke to one another in undertones—little conversational nudges of anticipation.
"By the way, Cynthia," the hostess inquired, "Have you heard from Helen Arden lately?"
"Not for some time," responded Miss Meyrick, "although I have her promise that she and the duke will be here—next Tuesday."
"Splendid." Mrs. Bruce turned to his lordship. "I think of Helen, Lord Harrowby, because she, too, married into your nobility. Her father made his money in sausage in the Middle
