“Some day, I suppose,” the Duchess remarked, as the service of dinner drew toward a close, “you will have restaurants like this in Tokio?”

The Prince assented.

“Yes,” he said without enthusiasm, “they will come.  Our heritage from the West is a sure thing.  Not in my days, perhaps, or in the days of those that follow me, but they will come.”

“I think that it is absolutely wicked of Dicky,” the Duchess declared, as they rose from the table.  “I shall never rely upon him again.”

“After all, perhaps, it isn’t his fault,” Penelope said, breathing a little sigh of relief as she rose to her feet.  “Mr. Harvey is not always considerate, and I know that several of the staff are away on leave.”

“That’s right, my dear,” the Duchess said, smiling, “stick up for your countrymen.  I suppose he’ll find us sometime during the evening.  We can all go to the theatre together; the omnibus is outside.”

The little party passed through the foyer and into the hall of the hotel, where they waited while the Duchess’ carriage was called.  Mr. Coulson was there in an easy chair, smoking a cigar, and watching the people coming and going.  He studied the passers-by with ah air of impersonal but pleased interest.  Penelope and Lady Grace were certainly admirable foils.  The latter was fair, with beautiful complexion—­a trifle sunburnt, blue eyes, good-humored mouth, and features excellent in their way, but a little lacking in expression.  Her figure was good; her movements slow but not ungraceful; her dress of white ivory satin a little extravagant for the occasion.  She looked exactly what she was,—­a well-bred, well-disposed, healthy young Englishwoman, of aristocratic parentage.  Penelope, on the other hand, more simply dressed, save for the string of pearls which hung from her neck, had the look of a creature from another world.  She had plenty of animation; a certain nervous energy seemed to keep her all the time restless.  She talked ceaselessly, sometimes to the Prince, more often to Sir Charles.  Her gray-green eyes were bright, her cheeks delicately flushed.  She spoke and looked and moved as one on fire with the joy of life.  The Prince, noticing that Lady Grace had been left to herself for the last few moments, moved a little towards her and commenced a courteous conversation.  Sir Charles took the opportunity to bend over his companion.

“Penelope,” he said, “you are queer tonight.  Tell me what it is?  You don’t really dislike the Prince, do you?”

“Why, of course not,” she answered, looking back into the restaurant and listening, as though interested in the music.  “He is odd, though, isn’t he?  He is so serious and, in a way, so convincing.  He is like a being transplanted into an absolutely alien soil.  One would like to laugh at him, and one can’t.”

“He is rather an anomaly,” Sir Charles said, humming lightly to himself.  “I suppose, compared with us matter-of-fact people, he must seem to your sex quite a romantic figure.”