Stafford was surprised, almost startled, but as he stood beside her, he was thinking, strangely enough, not so much of the singer as of the girl he was going to meet on the morrow.  When she had finished, there was a general murmur of applause, and Lady Clansford glided to the piano and asked her to sing again.

“You have a really wonderful voice, Miss Falconer.  I don’t think Melba ever sang that better.”

“Melba’s register is ever so much greater than mine,” remarked Miss Falconer, calmly.  “No, thanks; I won’t sing again.  I think I am a little tired.”

She went back to her seat slowly, her fan moving languidly, as if she were too conscious of the worth of her voice to be affected by the murmurs of applause and admiration; and Stafford, as his eyes followed her, thought she resembled a superb tropical flower of rich and subtle colouring and soft and languorous grace.

None of the women would venture to sing after this exhibition, and one of the young men went to the piano and dashed off a semi-comic song which believed the tension produced by Miss Falconer’s magnificent voice and style.  Then the woman began to glance at the clock and rise and stand about preparatory to going to bed, and presently they went off, lingering, talking, and laughing, in the hall and in the corridors.

The men drifted into the billiard and smoking-room, and Sir Stephen started a pool.  He had been at his very best in the drawing-room, moving about amongst the brilliant crowd, with a word for each and all, and pleased smile on his handsome face, and a happy, genial brightness in his voice.  Once or twice Sir Stephen approached Mr. Falconer, who leant against the wall looking on with the alert, watchful eyes half screened behind his lids, which, like his daughter’s had a trick of drooping, though with a very different expression.

“Your daughter has a magnificent voice, Falconer,” Sir Stephen had said in a congratulatory voice; and Falconer had nodded.

“Yes.  She’s been well taught, I believe,” he had responded, laconically; and Sir Stephen had nodded emphatically, and moved away.

“Will you play, Falconer?” he asked, as Stafford gave out the balls.  “You used to play a good game.”

Falconer shrugged his shoulders.

“Haven’t played for years:  rather look on,” he said.

“Let me give you a cigar.  Try these; they are all right, Stafford says.”

Falconer seated himself in one of the lounges and looked at the players and round the handsome room in contemplative silence.  Sir Stephen’s eye wandered covertly towards him now and again, and once he said to Stafford: 

“See if Mr. Falconer has some whiskey, my boy?”

As Stafford went up to Mr. Falconer’s corner he saw that Mr. Griffinberg and Baron Wirsch had joined him.  The three men were talking in the low confidential tone characteristic of city men when they are discussing the sacred subject of money, and Stafford caught the words—­“Sir Stephen”—­“South African Railway.”