Mrs. McBride had perceived immediately that the string of pearls round Mrs. Josiah Brown’s neck could not have cost less than nine thousand pounds, and that her frock, although so simple, was the last and most expensive creation of Callot Soeurs.  She had always been horribly attracted by Captain Fitzgerald, ever since that race week at Trouville two summers ago, and fate had sent them here to-night, and she meant to enjoy herself.

Captain Fitzgerald acceded to her request with his usual polished ease, and the radiant widow presented the rest of her guests to the two new-comers.

The tall man with the fierce beard was Prince Worrzoff, married to her niece, Saidie Butcher.  Saidie Butcher was short, and had a voice you could hear across the room.  The sleek, fair youth with the twinkling gray eyes was an Englishman from the Embassy.  The disagreeable-looking woman in the badly made mauve silk was his sister, Lady Hildon.  The stout, hook-nosed bird of prey with the heavy gold chain was a Western millionaire, and the smiling girl was his daughter.  Then, last of all, came Lord Bracondale—­and it was when he was presented that Theodora first began to take an interest in the party.

Hector, fourteenth Lord Bracondale of Bracondale (as she later that night read in the Peerage) was aged thirty-one years.  He had been educated at Eton and Oxford, served for some time in the Fourth Lifeguards, been unpaid attache at St. Petersburg, was patron of five livings, and sat in the House of Lords as Baron Bracondale; creation, 1505; seat, Bracondale Chase.  Brothers, none.  Sister living, Anne Charlotte, married to the fourth Earl of Anningford.

Theodora read all this over twice, and also even the predecessors and collateral branches—­but that was while she burned the midnight oil and listened to the snorts and coughs of Josiah Brown, slumbering next door.

For the time being she raised her eyes and looked into Lord Bracondale’s, and something told her they were the nicest eyes she had ever seen in this world.

Then when a voluble French count had rushed up, with garrulous apologies for being late, the party was complete, and they swept into the restaurant.

Theodora sat between the Western millionaire and the Russian Prince, but beyond—­it was a round table, only just big enough to hold them—­came her hostess and Lord Bracondale, and two or three times at dinner they spoke, and very often she felt his eyes fixed upon her.

Mrs. McBride, like all American widows, was an admirable hostess; the conversation never flagged, or the gayety for one moment.

The Western millionaire was shrewd, and announced some quaint truths while he picked his teeth with an audible sound.

“This is his first visit to Europe,” Princess Worrzoff said afterwards to Theodora by way of explanation.  “He is so colossally rich he don’t need to worry about such things at his time of life; but it does make me turn to hear him.”