taste in “lions”—­of the masculine sort.  Of the women to be met with at Grosville Park, one could be certain.  Lady Grosville made no excuses for her own sex.  But she was a sufficiently ambitious hostess to know that agreeable parties are not constructed out of the saints alone.  The men, therefore, must provide the sinners; and of some of the persons then most in vogue she was careful not to know too much.  For, socially, one must live; and that being so, the strictness of to-day may have at any moment to be purchased by the laxity of to-morrow.  Such, at any rate, was Darrell’s analysis of the situation.

He was still astonished, however, when all was said.  For Cliffe during the preceding winter, on his return from some remarkable travels in Persia, had paused on the Riviera, and an affair at Cannes with a French vicomtesse had got into the English papers.  No one knew the exact truth of it; and a small volume of verse by Cliffe, published immediately afterwards—­verse very distinguished, passionate, and obscure—­had offered many clews, but no solution whatever.  Nobody supposed, however, that the story was anything but a bad one.  Moreover, the last book of travels—­which had had an enormous success—­contained one of the most malicious attacks on foreign missions that Darrell remembered.  And if the missionaries had a supporter in England, it was Lady Grosville.  Had she designs—­material designs—­on behalf of Miss Amy or Miss Caroline?  Darrell smiled at the notion.  Cliffe must certainly marry money, and was not to be captured by any Miss Amys—­or Lady Kittys either, for the matter of that.

But?—­Darrell glanced at the lady beside him, and his busy thoughts took a new turn.  He had seen the greeting between Miss Lyster and Cliffe.  It was cold; but all the same the world knew that they had once been friends.  Was it some five years before that Miss Lyster, then in the height of a brilliant season under the wing of Lady Tranmore, had been much seen in public with Geoffrey Cliffe?  Then he had departed eastward, to explore the upper waters of the Mekong, and the gossip excited had died away.  Of late her name had been rather coupled with that of William Ashe.

Well, so far as the world was concerned, she might mate with either—­with the mad notoriety of Cliffe or the young distinction of Ashe.  Darrell’s bitter heart contracted as he reflected that only for him and the likes of him, men of the people, with average ability, and a scarcely average income, were maidens of Mary Lyster’s dower and pedigree out of reach.  Meanwhile he revenged himself by being her very good friend, and allowing himself at times much caustic plainness of speech in his talks with her.

* * * * *

“What are you three gossiping about?” said Ashe, strolling in presently from the other room to join them.

“As usual,” said Darrell.  “I am listening to perfection.  Miss Lyster and Harman are discussing pictures.”