Well, of course Lady Massulam was something of a galleon herself; but she was a beautiful dancer; that is to say, she responded perfectly to the male volition; she needed no pushing and no pulling; she moved under his will as lightly as a young girl.  Her elaborately dressed hair had an agreeable scent; her complexion was a highly successful achievement; everything about her had a quiet and yet a dazzling elegance which had been obtained regard-less of expense.  As for her figure, it was on a considerable scale, but its important contours had a soft and delicate charm.  And all that was nothing in the estimation of Mr. Prohack compared with her glance.  At intervals in the fox-trot he caught the glance.  It was arch, flirtatious, eternally youthful, challenging; and it expressed pleasure in the fox-trot.  Mr. Prohack was dancing better than ever before in his career as a dancer.  She made him dance better.  She was not the same woman whom he had first met at lunch at the Grand Babylon Hotel.  She was a new revelation, packed with possibilities.  Mr. Prohack recalled his wife’s phrase:  “You know she adores you.”  He hadn’t known.  Honestly such an idea had not occurred to him.  But did she adore him?  Not “adore”—­naturally—­but had she a bit of a fancy for him?

Mr. Prohack became the youngest man in the room,—­an extraordinary case of rejuvenescence.  He surveyed the room with triumph.  He sniffed up the brassy and clicking music into his vibrating nostrils.  He felt no envy of any man in the room.  When the band paused he clapped like a child for another dose of fox-trot.  At the end of the third dose they were both a little breathless and they had ices.  After a waltz they both realised that excess would be imprudent, and returned to the lounge.

“I wish you’d tell me something about my son,” said Mr. Prohack.  “I think you must be the greatest living authority on him.”

“Here?” exclaimed Lady Massulam.

“Anywhere.  Any time.”

“It would be safer at my house,” said Lady Massulam.  “But before I go I must just write a little note to Lord Partick.  He will expect it.”

That was how she invited him to The Lone Cedar, the same being her famous bungalow on the Front.

IV

“Your son,” said Lady Massulam, in a familiar tone, but most reassuringly like an aunt of Charlie’s, after she had explained how they had met in Glasgow through being distantly connected by the same business deal, and how she had been impressed by Charlie’s youthful capacity, “your son has very great talent for big affairs, but he is now playing a dangerous game—­far more dangerous than he imagines, and he will not be warned.  He is selling something he hasn’t got before he knows what price he will have to pay for it.”

“Ah!” breathed Mr. Prohack.

They were sitting together in the richly ornamented bungalow drawing-room, by the fire.  Lady Massulam sat up straight Sn her sober and yet daring evening frock.  Mr. Prohack lounged with formless grace in a vast easy-chair neighbouring a whiskey-and-soda.  She had not asked him to smoke; he did not smoke, and he had no wish to smoke.  She was a gorgeously mature specimen of a woman.  He imagined her young, and he decided that he preferred the autumn to the spring.  She went on talking of finance.