Elfrida discovered that the bearded gentleman was principal of a college in Florida, and corresponded regularly at one time with the late Sir William.  “It is to that,” said he ornately, “that I owe the honor of joining this brilliant company to-night.”  He went on to state that he was over there principally on account of his health—­acute dyspepsia he had, it seemed he’d got out of running order generally, regularly off the track.  “But I’ve just about concluded,” he continued, with a pathetic twinkle under his bushy brows, “that I might have a worse reason for going back.  What do you think of the meals in Victoria’s country, Miss Bell?  It seems to me sometimes that I’d give the whole British Museum for a piece of Johnny-cake.”

Elfrida reflected that this was not precisely what she expected to experience, and presently the hollow-cheeked Floridian was again at Lady Halifax’s elbow for disposal, while the young lady whose appearance and nationality had given him so much room for hope smilingly drifted away from him.  The Cardiffs were talking to a rosy and smooth-faced round-waistcoated gentleman just returned from Siberia about the unfortunate combination of accidents by which he lost the mail-train twice in three days, and Janet had just shaken hands with a short and cheerful-looking lady astrologist.

“Behind that large person in the heliotrope brocade—­she’s the wife of the Daily Mercury—­there’s a small sofa,” Janet said in an undertone.  “I don’t think she’ll, occupy it, the-brocade looks so much, better standing—­no, there she goes!  Let us sit down.”  As they crossed the room Janet added:  “In another minute we should have been shut up in a Russian prison.  Daddy’s incarcerated already.  And the man told all he knew about them in the public prints a month ago.”  They sat down luxuriously together, and made ready, in their palm-shaded corner, to wreak the whole of their irresponsible youth upon Lady Halifax’s often venerable and always considerable guests.  The warm atmosphere of the room had the perceptible charge of personalities.  People in almost every part of it were trying to look unconscious as they pointed out other people.

“Tell me about everybody—­everybody,” said Elfrida.

“H’m!  I don’t see anybody, that is anybody, at this moment.  Oh, there’s Sir Bradford Barker.  Regard him well, for a brave soul is Sir Bradford, Frida mine.”

“A soldier?  At this end of the century one can’t feel an enthusiasm for killing.”

“Not in the least.  A member of Parliament who writes verses and won’t be intimidated by Punch into not publishing them.  And the man he is talking to has just done a history of the Semitic nations.  He took me down to dinner last night, and we talked in the most intelligent manner about the various ways of preparing crabs.  He liked them in five styles; I wouldn’t subscribe to more than three.  That little man with the orchid that daddy has just seized is the author of the last