“Is he of the party?”

Karschoff scrutinised the approaching figures through his eyeglass and nodded.

“Her father is the dark, broad-shouldered man with the square beard,” he indicated.  “Immelan, as you can see, is the third.  They are coming this way.  We will speak of them afterwards.”

Naida, with her father and Oscar Immelan, left some acquaintances with whom they had been talking and, preceded by a maitre d’hotel, moved in the direction of the two men.  The girl recognised the Prince with a charming little bow and was on the point of passing on when she appeared to notice his companion.  For a moment she hesitated.  The Prince, anticipating her desire to speak, rose at once to his feet.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, bending over her hand, “welcome back to England!  You bring with you the first sunshine we have seen for many days.”

“Are you being meteorological or complimentary?” she asked, smiling.  “Will you present your companion?  I have heard of Mr. Kingley.”

“With the utmost pleasure,” the Prince replied.  “Mr. Kingley, through the unfortunate death of a relative, is now the Earl of Dorminster—­Mademoiselle Karetsky.”

Nigel, as he made his bow, was conscious of an expression of something more than ordinary curiosity in the face of the girl who had herself aroused his interest.

“You are the son, then,” she enquired, “of Lord Dorminster who died about a month ago?”

“His nephew,” Nigel explained.  “My uncle was unfortunately childless.”

“I met your uncle once in Paris,” she said.  “It will give me great pleasure to make your better acquaintance.  Will you and my dear friend here,” she added, turning to the Prince, “take coffee with us afterwards?  I shall then introduce you to my father.  Oscar Immelan you both know, of course.”

They murmured their delighted assent, and she passed on.  Nigel watched her until she took her place at the table.

“Surely that girl is well-born?” he observed.  “I have never seen a more delightful carriage.”

“You are right,” Karschoff told him.  “Karetsky is a well-to-do man of commerce, but her mother was a Baroness Kolchekoff, a distant relative of my own.  The Kolchekoffs lived on their estates, and as a matter of fact we never met.  Naida has gone over to the people, though, body and soul.”

“She is extraordinarily beautiful,” Nigel remarked.

His companion was swinging his eyeglass back and forth by its cord.

“Many men have thought so,” he replied.  “For myself, there is antagonism in my blood against her.  I wonder whether I have done well or ill in making you two acquainted.”

Nigel felt a sudden desire to break through a certain seriousness which had come over his own thoughts and which was reflected in the other’s tone.  He shrugged his shoulders slightly and filled his glass with wine.

“Every man in the world is the better,” he propounded, “for adding to the circle of his acquaintances a beautiful woman.”