Nelly Travers won her game amid congratulations, and Tom May challenged another woman, a Diana, who lived for sport and had joined the house party with her uncle, Mr. Felix Fayre-Michell.  But Millicent Fayre-Michell refused.

“I’ve shot six partridges, a hare, and two pheasants to-day,” said the girl, “and I’m half asleep.”

Other men were present also of a type not dissimilar.  It was a conventional gathering of rich nobodies, each a big frog in his own little puddle, none known far beyond it and none with sufficient intellect or ability to create for himself any position in the world save that won by the accident of money made by their progenitors.

Had it been necessary for any of them to earn his living, only in some very modest capacity and on a very modest plane might they have done so.  Of the entire company only one—­the youngest—­ could claim even the celebrity that attached to his little volume of war verses.

And now upon the lives of these every-day folk was destined to break an event unique and extraordinary.  Existence, that had meandered without personal incident save of a description common to them all, was, within twelve hours, to confront men and women alike with reality.  They were destined to endure at close quarters an occurrence so astounding and unparalleled that, for once in their lives, they would find themselves interesting to the wider world beyond their own limited circuit, and, for their friends and acquaintance, the centre of a nine days’ wonder.

Most of them, indeed, merely touched the hem of the mystery and were not involved therein, but even for them a reflected glory shone.  They were at least objects of attraction elsewhere, and for many months furnished conversation of a more interesting and exciting character than any could ever claim to have provided before.

The attitude to such an event, and the opinions concerning it, of such people might have been pretty accurately predicted; nor would it be fair to laugh at their terror and bewilderment, their confusion of tongues and the fatuous theories they adventured by way of explanation.  For wiser than they—­men experienced in the problems of humanity and trained to solve its enigmas—­were presently in no better case.

A very trivial and innocent remark was prelude to the disaster; and had the speaker guessed what his jest must presently mean in terms of human misery, grief, and horror, it is certain enough that he would not have spoken.

The women were gone to bed and the men sat around the fire smoking and admiring Sir Walter’s ancient blend of whisky.  He himself had just flung away the stump of his cigar and was admonishing his son-in-law.  “Church to-morrow, Tom.  None of your larks.  When first you came to see me, remember, you went to church twice on Sunday like a lamb.  I’ll have no backsliding.”

“Mary will see to that, governor.”

“And you, Henry.”