Mrs. Gregory had brought a small party, which included Mena Pomeroy, Robin Close—­one of the assistants—­and Douglas Shafto, who had never yet seen the famous Po Sine.  Somehow Miss Pomeroy and Mr. Close had contrived to get separated from their chaperon, but Shafto still stuck faithfully to his hostess.

A puppet play represented the curtain-raiser, and as this, to Shafto, was no novelty, he stared about him at the masses of shining black heads; men with jaunty silk handkerchiefs twisted round their brows, women with their wreaths and golden combs—­an undeniably smart audience—­all smoking.  The stage was open to the dark blue sky, which was sprinkled with stars.  Right above them clanged a temple gong; from far down the river came the hoot of a steamer’s syren, and during intervals the soft humming of the wind among the labyrinth of shrines—­a complete contrast in every respect was this Eastern scene to the last play he had witnessed in a London theatre!

All at once there was an influx of people surging in—­crafty folk who knew how to avoid the curtain-raiser.  These included a number of Germans.  Among the party in the train of Mrs. Muller, and attended by Herr Bernhard, was Miss Leigh in a dainty white frock and flower-trimmed hat, but somehow looking a little bit out of the picture.  Her chaperon, magnificent in a Viennese toilet, unexpectedly encountered friends who had recently arrived from the Fatherland; these she hailed with boisterous jubilation, and as she chattered and gesticulated, listened and interrupted, she entirely forgot her charge; in fact, she moved on, still talking, and abandoned her, so to speak, to her fate.

Sophy’s fate, luckily for her, happened to be Mrs. Gregory, who signed to Shafto to rescue the young lady and conduct her to a place under her own wing.

“How are you?” he said, accosting her eagerly.  “Mrs. Gregory has sent me to ask if you won’t sit by her?  There is lots of room.”

“I should love to, but you see I am here officially with Mrs. Muller.  I’ll go and speak to her, but I think she has filled my seat.”

A hasty word to the chaperon, who had entirely forgotten her existence, released Sophy and, as she joined Mrs. Gregory, Frau Muller said with a shrug: 

“Oh yes, she is rather pretty in her way.  She has got among those odious English—­let her stay with them!”

(Then she threw herself once more into the interesting topic of the latest scandal in Frankfort.)

“I am so pleased to see you,” said Mrs. Gregory, making room for Sophy beside her; “what has become of you all these weeks?”

“Oh, I have been in Kokine and quite safe,” she answered, but her smile was not so ready and whole-hearted as it had been on board ship.  “Aunt Flora caught a chill and has been laid up.  Poor dear, she is a martyr to neuralgia.”

“I know she is subject to it, but surely she does not require you to be with her all day?”