“Yes, yes, speaking.  What?” His tone changed “Oh, it’s you, Margaret.  What? . . .  Certainly, delighted.  No, there’s nobody here but old Seton Pasha.  What?  You’ve heard the fellows talk about him who were out East. . . .  Yes, that’s the chap. . . .  Come right along.”

“You don’t propose to lionise me, I hope, Gray?” said Seton, as Gray returned to his seat.

The other laughed.

“I forgot you could hear me,” he admitted.  “It’s my cousin, Margaret Halley.  You’ll like her.  She’s a tip-top girl, but eccentric.  Goes in for pilling.”

“Pilling?” inquired Seton gravely.

“Doctoring.  She’s an M.R.C.S., and only about twenty-four or so.  Fearfully clever kid; makes me feel an infant.”

“Flat heels, spectacles, and a judicial manner?”

“Flat heels, yes.  But not the other.  She’s awfully pretty, and used to look simply terrific in khaki.  She was an M.O. in Serbia, you know, and afterwards at some nurses’ hospital in Kent.  She’s started in practice for herself now round in Dover Street.  I wonder what she wants.”

Silence fell between them; for, although prompted by different reasons, both were undesirous of discussing the tragedy; and this silence prevailed until the ringing of the doorbell announced the arrival of the girl.  Willis opening the door, she entered composedly, and Gray introduced Seton.

“I am so glad to have met you at last, Mr. Seton,” she said laughingly.  “From Quentin’s many accounts I had formed the opinion that you were a kind of Arabian Nights myth.”

“I am glad to disappoint you,” replied Seton, finding something very refreshing in the company of this pretty girl, who wore a creased Burberry, and stray locks of whose abundant bright hair floated about her face in the most careless fashion imaginable.

She turned to her cousin, frowning in a rather puzzled way.

“Whatever have you been burning here?” she asked.  “There is such a curious smell in the room.”

Gray laughed more heartily than he had laughed that night, glancing in Seton’s direction.

“So much for your taste in cigars!” he cried

“Oh!” said Margaret, “I’m sure it’s not Mr. Seton’s cigar.  It isn’t a smell of tobacco.”

“I don’t believe they’re made of tobacco!” cried Gray, laughing louder yet, although his merriment was forced.

Seton smiled good-naturedly at the joke, but he had perceived at the moment of Margaret’s entrance the fact that her gaiety also was assumed.  Serious business had dictated her visit, and he wondered the more to note how deeply this odor, real or fancied, seemed to intrigue her.

She sat down in the chair which Gray placed by the fireside, and her cousin unceremoniously slid the brown packet of cigarettes across the little table in her direction.

“Try one of these, Margaret,” he said.  “They are great, and will quite drown the unpleasant odor of which you complain.”