McAllister assented hastily.

“No doubt, no doubt; though Oswyn was just wild about it—­you know his uncivilized ways—­and I must admit I was a bit astonished myself, at first, when I saw the picture at Burlington House with Lightmark’s signature to it.  But then I didn’t know anything of the rights of the case.  He’s a queer, cantankerous devil, and he’s always being wronged, according to his own accounts, and not only by the critics.  No one pays much attention to what he says nowadays.  It’s just that absinthe and the cigarettes that are the ruin of him, day and night.  Poor devil! why can’t he stick to whisky and a pipe, like a decent Christian!”

“His queerness is all on the surface,” said Rainham gravely.  “You have to dig pretty deep to find out what he’s really worth.”

Just then Eve hurried towards them through the trees, looking about her with an air of hesitation, carrying the train of her pale-gray brocade dress over one bare, girlish arm.

“Is that you, Mr. McAllister?” she asked, recognising first in the darkness the gaunt figure and tawny beard of the Scotchman.  “Oh, and Mr. Rainham too!  This is really very wrong of you, monopolizing each other in this way.  And don’t you know,” she added laughingly, “that this corner is especially dedicated to flirtations?  You must really come and do your duty.  Mr. McAllister, won’t you take Miss Menzies in to have some supper?  You know her, I think—­a compatriot, isn’t she?  You will find her close to the tent.  And you,” she pursued, turning to Rainham, “you must take some one in, you know.  Will you come this way, please, and I will introduce you to somebody.  I am so sorry I was not at home when you called the other day,” she said conventionally, as they edged their way by degrees towards the house.

“Yes; I seem to have an unfortunate capacity for missing you nowadays.  At Bordighera, for instance.  I have certainly had no luck at all lately.  I haven’t even had an opportunity of telling you how charming I find your house.”

“Ah!” said Eve vaguely, her eyes wandering over the people who were grouped upon the gravel walk and under the veranda outside the windows of the supper-room, “we really seem to see nothing of you now.  Oh, let me introduce you to Mrs. Gibson—­Mrs. Everett P. Gibson.  She’s American; you’ll find her very amusing.”

Rainham followed her obediently, thinking, with a quickly repressed passion of regret, of the child who would have confided to him her latest impressions of sorrow, of joy; finding something, which hardly emanated from himself, which made it seem difficult for him to gather up the threads of the old, charming intimacy with this new Eve—­this woman, with her pretty, dignified bearing, and self-possessed, almost cold attitude.  The introduction was duly effected, and for the next half-hour Rainham devoted himself heroically to the mental and physical entertainment (he was not obliged to do much talking) of the American lady, who hailed from the Far West, and lectured him volubly, with an exorbitant accent and a monotony of delivery, which began to tell on his nerves to an alarming degree, on her impressions of Europe, and especially England; the immense superiority of gas as a cooking and heating agent; the phenomenal attainments of her children; and the antiquities of Minneapolis.