“Who, Alroy?” demanded Mrs. Spatt earnestly.  “Not that Miss Nickall you mentioned?”

“Yes, my dove.”  And then in a grave tone to the parlourmaid:  “Give this letter to your mistress.”

Mr. Spatt, cheered by the new opportunity for conversation, and in his eagerness abrogating all rules, explained how he had been in London on the previous day for a performance of Strauss’s Elektra, and according to his custom had called at the offices of the Suffragette Union to see whether he could in any manner aid the cause.  He had been told that a house in Paget Gardens lent to the Union had been basely withdrawn from service by its owner on account of some embroilment with the supreme police authorities at Scotland Yard, and that one of the inmates, a Miss Nickall, the poor young lady who had had her arm broken and was scarcely convalescent, had need of quietude and sea air.  Mr. Spatt had instantly offered the hospitality of his home to Miss Nickall, whom he had seen in a cab and who was very sweet.  Miss Nickall had said that she must consult her companion.  It now appeared that the companion was gone to the Midlands.  This episode had occurred immediately before the receipt of the telegram from head-quarters asking for shelter for Miss Jane Foley and Mrs. Moncreiff.

Mr. Spatt’s excitement had now communicated itself to everybody except Mr. Ziegler and Siegfried Spatt.  Jane Foley almost recovered her presence of mind, and Mrs. Spatt was extraordinarily interested to learn that Miss Nickall was an American painter who had lived long in Paris, and that Audrey had first made her acquaintance in Paris, and knew Paris well.  Audrey’s motor-car had produced a considerable impression on Aurora Spatt, and this impression was deepened by the touch about Paris.  After breathing mysterious orders into the ear of the parlourmaid Mrs. Spatt began to talk at large about music in Paris, and Mr. Spatt made comparisons between the principal opera houses in Europe.  He proclaimed for the Scala at Milan; but Mr. Ziegler, who had methodically according to a fixed plan lived in all European capitals except Paris—­whither he was soon going, said that Mr. Spatt was quite wrong, and that Milan could not hold a candle to Munich.  Mrs. Spatt inquired whether Audrey had heard Strauss’s Elektra at the Paris Opera House.  Audrey replied that Strauss’s Elektra had not been given at the Paris Opera House.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Spatt.  “This prejudice against the greatest modern masterpieces because they are German is a very sad sign in Paris.  I have noticed it for a long time.”

Audrey, who most irrationally had begun to be annoyed by the blandness of Mr. Ziegler’s smile, answered with a rival blandness: 

“In Paris they do not reproach Strauss because he is German, but because he is vulgar.”

Mrs. Spatt had a martyrised expression.  In her heart she felt a sick trembling of her religious belief that Elektra was the greatest opera ever composed.  For Audrey had the prestige of Paris and of the automobile.  Mrs. Spatt, however, said not a word.  Mr. Ziegler, on the other hand, after shuffling some seconds for utterance, ejaculated with sublime anger: