“Sententious and a trifle inaccurate,” the Prince objected, with a sudden flash of his white teeth.  “The beauty which is not for him has been many a man’s undoing.  But seriously, my quarrel with Naida is one of prejudice only.  She is the confidante and the inspiration of Matinsky, and though one realises, of course, that so long as there is a Russian Republic there must be a Russian President, I suppose I should scarcely be human if I did not hate him.”

“Surely,” Nigel queried, “she must be very much his junior?”

“Matinsky is forty-four,” Karschoff said.  “Naida is twenty-six or twenty-seven.  The disparity of years, you see, is not so great.  Matinsky, however, is married to an invalid wife, and concerning Naida I have never heard one word of scandal.  But this much is certain.  Matinsky has the blandest confidence in her judgment and discretion.  She has already been his unofficial ambassador in several capitals of Europe.  I am convinced that she is here with a purpose.  But enough of my country-people.  We came here to be gay.  Let us drink another bottle of wine.”

The joy of living seemed for a moment to reassert itself in Karschoff’s face.  His momentary fierceness, reminiscent of his Tartar ancestry, had passed, but it had left a shadow behind.

“At least one should be grateful,” he conceded a moment later, “for the distinction such a woman as Naida Karetsky brings into a room like this.  Our Bond Street lament finds its proof here.  Except for their clothes—­so ill-worn, too, most of them—­the women here remind one of Blackpool, and their men of Huddersfield.  I am inclined to wish that I had taken you to Soho.”

Nigel shook his head.  His eyes had strayed to a distant corner of the room, where Naida and her two companions were seated.

“We cannot escape anywhere,” he declared, “from this overmastering wave of mediocrity.  A couple of generations and a little intermarriage may put things right.  A Chancellor of the Exchequer with genius, fifteen years ago, might even have prevented it.”

“You can claim, at any rate, a bloodless and unapparent revolution,” the Prince observed.  “You chivied your aristocracy of birth out of existence with yellow papers, your aristocracy of mind with a devastating income tax.  This is the class whom you left to gorge,—­the war profiteers.  I hope that whoever writes the history of these times will see that it is properly illustrated.”

In the lounge, they had barely seated themselves before Naida, with her father and Immelan, appeared.  The little party at once joined up, and Naida seated herself next to Nigel.  She talked very slowly, but her accent amounted to little more than a prolongation of certain syllables, which had the effect of a rather musical drawl.  Her father, after the few words of introduction had been spoken, strolled away to speak to some acquaintances, and Immelan and the Prince discussed with measured politeness one of the commonplace subjects of the moment.  Naida and her companion became almost isolated.