‘Lady Lesbia, may I have a cup of tea?’ he asked; not because he wanted the tea, but only for the cruel delight of seeing if she were able to give it to him calmly.

Her hands shook, fluttered, wandered helplessly, as she poured out that cup of tea and handed it to Montesma, a feminine office which she had performed placidly enough for Mr. Smithson.  The Spaniard took the cup from her with a quiet smile, a subtle look which seemed to explore the inmost depth of her consciousness.

Yes, this man was verily her master.  She knew it, and he know it, as that look of his told her.  Vain to play her part of languid indifference—­vain to struggle against her bondage.  In heart and spirit she was at his feet, an odalisque, recognising and bowing down to her sultan.

Happily for the general peace, Mr. Smithson had been looking away seaward, with a somewhat troubled brow, while that little cap and saucer episode was being enacted.  And in the next minute Lesbia had recovered her self-command, and resumed that graceful languor which was one of her charms.  She was weak, but she was not altogether foolish; and she had no idea of succumbing to this new influence—­of yielding herself up to this conqueror, who seemed to take her life into his hand as if it were a bit of thistledown.  Her agitation of those first few minutes was due to the suddenness of his appearance—­the reaction from dulness to delight.  She had been told that he was not to be at Cowes till Monday, and lo! he was here at her side, just as she was thinking how empty and dreary life was without him.

He dropped into his place so naturally and easily, made himself so thoroughly at home and so agreeable to every one, that it was almost impossible for Horace Smithson to resent his audacity!  Mr. Smithson’s vitals might be devoured by the gnawing of the green-eyed monster, but however fierce that gnawing were, he did not want to seem jealous.  Montesma was there as the very incarnation of some experiences in Mr. Smithson’s past career, and he dared not object to the man’s presence.

And so the summer day wore on.  They had the yacht all to themselves that evening, for the racing yachts were fulfilling engagements in other waters, and the gay company of pleasure-seekers had not yet fully assembled.  They were dropping in one by one, all the evening, and Cowes roads grew fuller of life with every hour of the summer night.

Mr. Smithson and his guests dined in the saloon, a snug little party of four, and sat long over dessert, deep into the dusk; and they talked of all things under heaven, things frivolous, things grave, but most of all about that fair, strange world in far-off southern waters, the sunny islands of the Caribbean Sea, and the dreamy, luxurious life of that tropical clime, half Spanish, half Oriental, wholly independent of European conventionalities.  Lesbia listened, enchanted by the picture.  What were Park Lane palaces,