Mr. Bruce only grunted, but Mr. Paddock answered brightly:
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"Why—er—really—" Mr. Paddock blushed. Modest author, he.
A servant appeared to say that Lord Harrowby was wanted at once outside, and excusing himself, Harrowby departed. He found his valet, a plump, round-faced, serious man, waiting in the shadows on the veranda. For a time they talked together in low tones. When Harrowby returned to the dining-room, his never cheerful face was even gloomier than usual.
Spencer Meyrick and Bruce, exiles both of them, talked joyously of business and the rush of the day's work for which both longed. The New York man and a sapling from Boston conversed of chamber music. Martin Wall sat silent, contemplative. Perhaps had he spoken his thoughts they would have been of a rich jewel shop at noon—deserted.
A half-hour later Mrs. Bruce's dinner-party was scattered among the palms and flowers of
