to locomotion was entirely independent of her hostess.  No one in Fuchsia’s circle received so many visits as Sophy Leigh; she was fond of Sophy, and frequently turned up at “Heidelberg” to tiffin or to tea, although she did not care about the set of people that she met there—­stout German ladies with somewhat aggressive manners, or second-rate women from the fringe of Society.  Everyone of these was, in the eyes of the little American democrat, an “Outsider.”  Fuchsia was fastidious, an aristocrat to her finger-tips, and it was no drawback to Pat FitzGerald that his maternal uncle was an earl.

“How could Sophy tolerate these stupid people,” Fuchsia asked herself, “with their sharp, probing questions and heavy jokes?  Why did Mrs. Krauss invite them?”

And here she came to yet another question:  What was the matter with Mrs. Krauss?  There was something strange and mysterious about her ailment; her attacks were so fitful; now she appeared brilliant and vivacious, with gleams of her former great beauty, the gracious and agreeable hostess; again, her condition was that of sheer indifference and semi-torpor.  And who was the officious and familiar ayah, her attendant and shadow, an obtrusive creature with bold black eyes and a resolute mouth?  Why did she speak so authoritatively to her mistress?  Why did she wear such handsome jewellery and expensive silk saris, heavily fringed with gold, and strut about with such an air of importance?

Lily appeared to have enormous influence with Mrs. Krauss—­she knew something!  She held some secret.  This was the conclusion at which Fuchsia the shrewd arrived, after she had paid a good many visits to “Heidelberg.”

Fuchsia, with her long chin resting on her hand, set her active brain and cool judgment to work.  She recalled a certain scene one evening when she had driven over in her car to take Sophy to the theatre, and was sitting in the veranda half hidden by a screen, awaiting her friend, whilst Mrs. Krauss, lying prone upon the sofa, fanned herself with a languid hand.  Presently, from a doorway, Lily noiselessly drifted in.  She was amazingly light-footed for her bulk.

“Now, it is nine o’clock,” she said, addressing her mistress, “and you have got to go to bed.”  Her voice was sharp and authoritative.  The reply came in a low murmur of expostulation.

“I’m going to the Pagoda to-night,” continued Lily, “but you will be all right.  As soon as you are undressed you shall have your dose.”

On hearing this promise Mrs. Krauss furled her fan, rose from the sofa with astonishing alacrity, and followed her ayah as commanded.

Now the question that puzzled Fuchsia was, what was the nature of the dose?  It must have been something agreeable, or Mrs. Krauss would not have bounded off the sofa and hurried away—­and who would rush for a dose of quinine or even the fashionable petrol?  Undoubtedly the dose was a drug—­some enervating and insidious drug.  This would amply account for the lady’s lethargy and languor.  The crafty Fuchsia threw out several feelers to her hostess on the subject of “Heidelberg”—­she wondered whether anyone shared her suspicions.  Certainly Mrs. Gregory did not, but sincerely lamented her neighbour’s miserable health, and deplored her obstinacy in remaining season after season in Rangoon.