Leroy’s face darkened slightly.  Vermont was his friend, and he resented a word spoken against him far more than he would have done one against himself.

“You misjudge him, Shelton,” he said briefly.

“Possibly,” retorted the other, unabashed.  “What you find so fascinating in him I can’t imagine.  Still, my dear fellow, setting Vermont aside, there can be no two opinions respecting your chef.  Sarteri is a possession I positively envy you.  There is not another chef in England that understands entrees as he does.”

“None,” echoed Lord Standon.  “Leroy will be famous for one thing, at least, if it’s only for his cook.”

The meal came to an end, and the table was cleared by the silent Norgate.  Cards were produced, and the four were soon deep in the intricacies of bridge.  They played high and recklessly; and after little more than an hour, Shelton and Leroy had lost over five hundred pounds.

“A close run, eh, Shelton?” laughed Leroy as he took the notes from an open drawer.  “Had they played the knave we should have won.  Time for another round?”

“Not I,” replied his friend, with a regretful shake of his head.  “I’m due at Lady Martingdale’s.”

“Picture galleries again?” laughed Standon, who knew that lady’s weaknesses.

“Yes,” Shelton confessed, “and with Miss Martingdale too.”

The others laughed significantly.

“Say no more, Mortimer,” begged Lord Standon, with mock grief.  “Your days are numbered.  Already I see myself enacting the part of chief mourner—­I should say, best man—­if you will allow me.”

Shelton rose, laughing good-humouredly.

“Thanks, I’ll remember—­when it comes to that!”

“You’re incorrigible, Stan,” said Leroy, as his guests were taking their leave.  “You’d better settle down yourself first, and leave Shelton alone.”

When they had all gone, the host stood looking at the empty chairs.  They seemed, as it were, typical of the weary, empty hours of his life, and for the first time a wholesome distaste of it all swept over him.  Day in, day out, an everlasting whirl—­wherein he and his companions turned night into day and spent their lives in a hollow round of gaiety, in which scandal, cards, women and wine were chief features.  And, at the end!  What would be the end?

Then he shook himself from his unaccustomed reverie; Adrien Leroy, the popular idol of fashionable society, was not given long to introspection.

“What next?” he asked himself.

It was Norgate who answered the unspoken query, by announcing that the motor was at the door.

As Adrien descended the stairs, Jasper Vermont entered the hall below him.

“Ah, just in time!” he said with his amicable smile.  “You’re off to the Park, I suppose?”

“I don’t know yet,” returned Adrien evasively.  “What do you think of the motor?”

“Worthy even of Adrien Leroy,” replied Jasper, with the faintest suspicion of a sneer, which, however, passed unperceived by his friend.  “By the way,” he continued, as they walked to the door together, “I have just left Ada in tears, poor girl; repentance followed closely on repletion.  She vows solemnly to refrain from onions and patchouli for the future, and begs for the return of your favour.”