“He promised to play with me to-morrow,” Hamel remarked thoughtfully.  “He said nothing about going away.”

“I fear that like most young men of his age he has little memory,” Mr. Fentolin sighed.  “However, he will be back to-morrow or the next day.  I owe you my apologies, Mr. Hamel, for our lack of young people.  We must do our best to entertain our guest, Florence.  You must be at your best, dear.  You must tell him some of those capital stories of yours.”

Mrs. Fentolin shivered for a moment.  Hamel, as he handed her to her place, was struck by a strange look which she threw upon him, half furtive, full of pain.  Her hand almost clung to his.  She slipped a little, and he held her tightly.  Then he was suddenly conscious that something hard was being pressed into his palm.  He drew his hand away at once.

“You seem a little unsteady this evening, my dear Florence,” Mr. Fentolin remarked, peering across the round table.

She eyed him nonchalantly enough.

“The floor is slippery,” she said.  “I was glad, for a moment, of Mr. Hamel’s strong hand.  Where are those dear puppies?  Chow-Chow,” she went on, “come and sit by your mistress at once.”

Hamel’s fingers inside his waistcoat pocket were smoothing out the crumpled piece of paper which she had passed to him.  Soon he had it quite flat.  Mrs. Fentolin, as though freed from some anxiety, chattered away gaily.

“I don’t know that I shall apologise to Mr. Hamel at all for the young people being away,” she declared.  “Just fancy what we have saved him from—­a solitary meal served by Hannah Cox!  Do you know that they say she is half-witted, Mr. Hamel?”

“So far, she has looked after me very well,” Hamel observed.

“Her intellect is defective,” Mr. Fentolin remarked, “on one point only.  The good woman is obsessed by the idea that her husband and sons are still calling to her from the Dagger Rocks.  It is almost pitiful to meet her wandering about there on a stormy night.  The seacoasts are full of these little village tragedies—­real tragedies, too, however insignificant they may seem to us.”

Mr. Fentolin’s tone was gently sympathetic.  He changed the subject a moment or two later, however.

“Nero fiddles to-night,” he said, “while Rome burns.  There are hundreds in our position, yet it certainly seems queer that we should be sitting here so quietly when the whole country is in such a state of excitement.  I see the press this morning is preaching an immediate declaration of war.”

“Against whom?” Mrs. Fentolin asked.

Mr. Fentolin smiled.