“I am quite sure that you are right,” she admitted.  “I am not really worried at all.  It is a very annoying manner, however, in which to go away, this,—­a desertion most unceremonious.  And now Andrea here tells me that at any moment he may leave me, too.”

They all looked at him.  He inclined his head gravely.

“Nothing is decided,” he said.  “I have friends abroad who generally let me know when things are stirring.  There is a little cloud—­it may blow over or it may be the presage of a storm.  In a day or two we shall know.”

“You men are to be envied,” Lady Blennington sighed, speaking for a moment more seriously.  “You have the power always to roam.  You follow the music of the world wherever you will.  The drum beats, you pull up your stakes, and away you go.  But for us poor women, alas! there is never any pulling up of the stakes.  We, too, hear the music—­perhaps we hear it oftener than you—­but we may not follow.”

“You have compensations,” Sabatini remarked.

“We have compensations, of course,” Lady Blennington admitted, “but what do they amount to, after all?”

“You have also a different set of instincts,” Signor di Marito interposed.  “There are other things in the life of a woman than to listen always to the wander-music.”

“The question is as old as the hills,” Fenella declared, “and it bores me.  I want some more omelette.  Really, Andrea, your chef is a treasure.  If you get your summons, I think that I shall take him over.  Who will come to the theatre with me to-night?  I have two stalls for the Gaiety.”

“I can’t,” Lady Blennington remarked.  “I am going to a foolish dinner-party, besides which, of course, you don’t want to be bothered with a woman.”

“Nor can I,” Sabatini echoed.  “I have appointments all the evening.”

“I, alas!” Signor di Marito sighed, “must not leave my post for one single moment.  These are no days for theatre-going for my poor countrymen.”

“Then the duty seems to devolve upon you,” Fenella decided, smiling toward Arnold.

“I am sorry,” he replied, “but I, too, seem to be unfortunate.  I could not possibly get away from the city in time.”

“Absurd!” she answered, a little sharply.  “You are like a boy with a new hobby.  It is I who wish that you leave when you choose.”

“Apart from that,” Arnold continued, “I am sorry, but I have an engagement for the evening.”

She made a little grimace.

“With your invalid friend?”

Arnold assented.

“I should not like to leave her alone this evening.  She has been in a great deal of trouble lately.”

There was a moment’s silence.  A slight frown had gathered on Fenella’s forehead.

“I noticed that she was dressed wholly in black,” she remarked.  “Perhaps she is in trouble because she has lost a relative lately?”

“She appears to have no relatives in the world,” Arnold declared, “except an uncle, and he, I am afraid, is a little worse than useless to her.”