Blanche Farrow thought she knew everything there was to know about Lionel Varick, and, as a matter of fact, she did know a great deal no one else knew, though not quite as much as she believed.  She knew him to be a hedonist, a materialist, a man who had very few scruples.  But not even to herself would she have allowed him to be called by the ugly name of adventurer.  Perhaps it would be truer to say—­for she was a very clever woman—­that even if, deep in her heart, she must have admitted that such a name would have once suited him, she could now gladly tell herself that “all that” lay far behind him.  As we have seen, he owed this change in his circumstances to a happy draw in the lottery of marriage, a draw which has so often turned an adventurer of sorts into a man of substance and integrity.

CHAPTER III

There is generally something a little dull and formal during the first evening of a country house party; and if this is true when most of the people know each other, how far more so is it the case with such a party as that which was now gathered together at Wyndfell Hall!

Lionel Varick sat at one end of the long oak refectory table, Blanche Farrow at the other.  But though the table was far wider than are most refectory tables (it was believed to be, because of its width, a unique specimen), yet Blanche, very soon after they had sat down, told herself that there was something to be said, after all, for the old-fashioned, Victorian mahogany.  Such a party as was this party would have sorted themselves out, and really enjoyed themselves much more, sitting in couples round an ordinary dining-table, than at this narrow, erstwhile monastic board.  Here they were just a little bit too near together—­too much vis-a-vis, so Blanche put it to herself with a dissatisfied feeling.

But soon things began going a little better.  It had been her suggestion that champagne should be offered with the soup, and already it was having an effect.  She was relieved to see that the oddly assorted men and women about her were brisking up, and beginning to talk, even to laugh, with one another.

On the host’s right sat Miss Burnaby.  She was at once quaint and commonplace looking, the most noticeable thing about her being the fact that she wore a cap.  It was made of fine Mechlin lace threaded with pale-blue ribbon, and, to the woman now looking at her, suggested an interesting survival of the Victorian age.  Quite old ladies had worn such caps when she, Blanche Farrow, was a child!

The rest of Miss Burnaby’s costume consisted of a high black silk dress, trimmed with splendid point lace.

Miss Burnaby was evidently enjoying herself.  She had taken a glass of sherry, was showing no fear of her champagne, and had just helped herself substantially to the delicious sole which was one of the special triumphs of the French chef who had come down for a month to Wyndfell Hall.  He and Miss Farrow had discussed to-night’s menu together that morning, and he had spoken with modest enthusiasm of this Sole a la Cardinal....