through the open door several standing groups could be seen; and in the inner room, where they sat, there was but little space between its margin and themselves.  It was a remarkable sight; and in his past visits to the house Ashe had often said to himself that the elements of which it was made up were still more remarkable.  Ministers and Opposition; ambassadors, travellers, journalists; the men of fashion and the men of reform; here a French republican official, and beyond him, perhaps, a man whose ancestors were already of the most ancient noblesse in Saint-Simon’s day; artists, great and small, men of letters good and indifferent; all these had been among the guests of Madame d’Estrees, brought to the house, each of them, for some quality’s sake, some power of keeping up the social game.

But now, as he looked at the room, not to please himself but to obey Lady Kitty, Ashe became aware of a new impression.  The crowd was no less, numerically, than he had seen it in the early winter; but it seemed to him less distinguished, made up of coarser and commoner items.  He caught the face of a shady financier long since banished from Lady Tranmore’s parties; beyond him a red-faced colonel, conspicuous alike for doubtful money-matters and matrimonial trouble; and in a farther corner the sallow profile of a writer whose books were apt to rouse even the man of the world to a healthy and contemptuous disgust.  Surely these persons had never been there of old; he could not remember one of them.

He looked again, more closely.  Was it fancy, or was the gathering itself aware of the change which had passed over it?  As a whole, it was certainly noisier than of old; the shouting and laughter were incessant.  But within the general uproar certain groups had separated from other groups, and were talking with a studied quiet.  Most of the habitue’s were still there; but they held themselves apart from their neighbors.  Were the old intimacy and solidarity beginning to break up?—­and with them the peculiar charm of these “evenings,” a charm which had so far defied a social boycott that had been active from the first?

He glanced back uncertainly at Lady Kitty, and she looked at him.

“Why are there no ladies?” she said, abruptly.

He collected his thoughts.

“It—­it has always been a men’s gathering.  Perhaps for some men here—­I’m sorry there are such barbarians, Lady Kitty!—­that makes the charm of it.  Look at that old fellow there!  He is a most famous old boy.  Everybody invites him—­but he never stirs out of his den but to come here.  My mother can’t get him—­though she has tried often.”

And he pointed to a dishevelled, gray-haired gentleman, short in stature, round in figure, something, in short, like an animated egg, who was addressing a group not far off.

Lady Kitty’s face showed a variety of expressions.

“Are there many parties like this in London?  Are the ladies asked, and don’t come?  I—­I don’t—­understand!”