“To talk of bravery when one speaks of that war,” the General remarked, “seems invidious, for it is my belief that throughout the whole of the Japanese army such a thing as fear did not exist.  They simply did not know what the word meant.  But I shall never forget that the only piece of hand-to-hand fighting I saw during the whole time was a cavalry charge led by Prince Maiyo against an immensely superior force of Russians.  Duchess,” the General declared, “those Japanese on their queer little horses went through the enemy like wind through a cornfield.  That young man must have borne a charmed life.  I saw him riding and cheering his men on when he must have had at least half a dozen wounds in his body.  You will pardon me, Duchess?  I see that my party are waiting.”

The General hurried away.  The Duchess shut up her lorgnettes with a snap, and held out her hand to a newcomer who had come from behind the palms.

“My dear Prince,” she exclaimed, “this is charming of you!  Some one told me that you were not well,—­our wretched climate, of course—­and I was so afraid, every moment, that we should receive your excuses.”

The newcomer, who was bowing over her hand, was of medium height or a trifle less, dark, and dressed with the quiet exactness of an English gentleman.  Only a slight narrowness of the eyes and a greater alertness of movement seemed to distinguish him in any way, as regards nationality, from the men by whom he was surrounded.  His voice, when he spoke, contained no trace of accent.  It was soft and singularly pleasant.  It had, too, one somewhat rare quality—­a delightful ring of truth.  Perhaps that was one of the reasons why Prince Maiyo was just then, amongst certain circles, one of the most popular persons in Society.

“My dear Duchess,” he said, “my indisposition was nothing.  And as for your climate, I am beginning to delight in it,—­one never knows what to expect, or when one may catch a glimpse of the sun.  It is only the grayness which is always the same.”

“And even that,” the Duchess remarked, smiling, “has been yellow for the last few days.  Prince, you know my daughter Grace, and I am sure that you have met Miss Penelope Morse?  We are waiting for two other men, Sir Charles Somerfield and Mr. Vanderpole.”

The Prince bowed, and began to talk to his hostess’ daughter,—­a tall, fair girl, as yet only in her second season.

“Here comes Sir Charles, at any rate!” the Duchess exclaimed.  “Really, I think we shall have to go in.  We can leave a message for Dicky; they all know him at this place.  I am afraid he is one of those shocking young men who entertain the theatrical profession here to supper.”

A footman at that moment brought a note to the Duchess, which she tore open.

“This is from Dicky!” she exclaimed, glancing it through quickly,—­“Savoy notepaper, too, so I suppose he has been here.  He says that he may be a few minutes late and that we are not to wait.  He will pick us up either here or at the theatre.  Prince, shall we let these young people follow us?  I haven’t heard your excuses yet.  Do you know that you were a quarter of an hour late?”