“Why this unanimous desertion?” demanded Van indignantly from the head of the table when it began to develop that an exodus impended.  “Do your appetites crave the stimulus of city cooking?  Are you leaving my simple roof for the lobster palaces?”

Benton shook his head.  “Singular,” he commented, studying his grape-fruit with the air of an oracle gazing into crystal.  “There, for example, is Colonel Centress who will probably tell you that he has had an imperative summons to confer with his brokers and—­”

He paused, while the ancient beau across the table quickly nodded affirmation.

“Quite so.  How did you guess it?” he inquired.

“Never talk business at table, of course, but this is a mysterious flurry in stocks—­quite a mysterious flurry.”

“Quite so,” echoed Benton.  “Nevertheless, if you were to shadow the gallant Colonel in Manhattan to-day he would probably lead you to a costuming tailor, where you would discover him in the act of being fitted with a Roman toga or a crusader’s mail.”

Mrs. Porter-Woodleigh shot a malicious glance at the tall foreigner whose emotionless face proved a constant irritation to her exuberant vivacity.  “I understand, Colonel Von Ritz,” she innocently suggested, “that you are to impersonate a polar bear.”

The Galavian smiled deep in his eyes only; his lips remained sober.  One would have said that he had not recognized the thrust.  “I shall only remain myself,” he replied.  “I am allowed to be a looker-on in Venice.”

Under her breath the widow confided to her next neighbor:  “Ah! then it is true.”

“What are you going to town for?” demanded Mrs. Van, looking accusingly at Benton, as that gentleman arose from the table.

“I should say,” he laughingly responded, “that I am going to complete final arrangements for getting the Isis into commission, but nobody would believe me.  You are all becoming so diplomatic of late!”

Von Ritz glanced up casually.  “There is one very dangerous diplomacy—­one very difficult to become accustomed to,” he commented.  “I allude to the American diplomacy of frankness.”

“The Isis?  To think I have never seen your yacht!” mused Cara.  “And yet you are allowing me to cross on a steamer.”

“If she could be put in shape so soon,” declared Benton regretfully, glancing from Von Ritz to Pagratide, “I should shanghai Mrs. Van for a chaperon and give a party to Europe.  Unfortunately I can’t get her in readiness promptly enough; unless,” he added hopefully, “Miss Carstow can postpone her sailing-day?”

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH ROMEO BECOMES DROMIO

When Benton had straightened out his car for the run to the city, and the road had begun to slip away under the tires, he turned to McGuire, his chauffeur.

“McGuire,” he inquired, “where is the runabout?”