That was always the first question, for he never wasted time.

‘To-morrow, if you like.  Come late—­about seven.’

The Ambassador was on her other side.  A little knot of men and one lady were standing near the fire in an expectant sort of way, ready to be introduced to Margaret.  She saw the bony head of Paul Griggs, and she smiled at him from a distance.  He was talking to a very handsome and thoroughbred looking woman in plain black velvet, who had the most perfectly beautiful shoulders Margaret had ever seen.

Mustapha Pasha led the Primadonna to the group.

‘Lady Maud,’ he said to the beauty, ’this is my old friend Senorita da Cordova.  Countess Leven,’ he added, for Margaret’s benefit.

She had not met him more than three times, but she did not resent being called his old friend.  It was well meant, she thought.

Lady Maud held out her hand cordially.

‘I’ve wanted to know you ever so long,’ she said, in her sweet low voice.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Margaret answered.

It is not easy to find a proper reply to people who say they have long hoped to meet you, but Griggs came to the rescue, as he shook hands in his turn.

‘That was not a mere phrase,’ he said with a smile.  ’It’s quite true.  Lady Maud wanted me to give her a letter to you a year ago.’

‘Indeed I did,’ asseverated the beauty, nodding, ’but Mr. Griggs said he didn’t know you well enough!’

‘You might have asked me,’ observed Logotheti.  ’I’m less cautious than Griggs.’

‘You’re too exotic,’ retorted Lady Maud, with a ripple in her voice.

The adjective described the Greek so well that the others laughed.

‘Exotic,’ Margaret repeated the word thoughtfully.

‘For that matter,’ put in Mustapha Pasha with a smile, ’I can hardly be called a native!’

The Countess Leven looked at him critically.

‘You could pass for one,’ she said, ‘but Monsieur Logotheti couldn’t.’  The other men, whom Margaret did not know, had been listening in silence, and maintained their expectant attitude.  In the pause which followed Lady Maud’s remark the Ambassador introduced them in foreign fashion:  one was a middle-aged peer who wore gold-rimmed spectacles and looked like a student or a man of letters; another was the most successful young playwright of the younger generation, and he wore a very good coat and was altogether well turned out, for in his heart he prided himself on being the best groomed man in London; a third was a famous barrister who had a crisp and breezy way with him that made flat calms in conversation impossible.  Lastly, a very disagreeable young man, who seemed a mere boy, was introduced to the Primadonna.

‘Mr. Feist,’ said the Ambassador, who never forgot names.

Margaret was aware of a person with an unhealthy complexion, thick hair of a dead-leaf brown colour, and staring blue eyes that made her think of glass marbles.  The face had an unnaturally youthful look, and yet, at the same time, there was something profoundly vicious about it.  Margaret wondered who in the world the young man might be and why he was at the Turkish Embassy, apparently invited there to meet her.  She at once supposed that in spite of his appearance he must have some claim to celebrity.