Whilst Lady Maltenby was engaged in this task, which she performed at all times with the unfailing tact of a great hostess, Julian broke off in his conversation with the two soldiers and looked steadfastly across the room at Catherine Abbeway, as though anxious to revise or complete his earlier impressions of her.  She was of medium height, not unreasonably slim, with a deliberate but noticeably graceful carriage.  Her complexion was inclined to be pale.  She had large, soft brown eyes, and hair of an unusual shade of chestnut brown, arranged with remarkably effective simplicity.  She wore a long string of green beads around her neck, a black tulle gown without any relief of colour, but a little daring in its cut.  Her voice and laugh, as she stood talking to the Bishop, were delightful, and neither her gestures nor her accent betrayed the slightest trace of foreign blood.  She was, without a doubt, extraordinarily attractive, gracious almost to freedom in her manner, and yet with that peculiar quality of aloofness only recognisable in the elect,—­a very appreciable charm.  Julian found his undoubted admiration only increased by his closer scrutiny.  Nevertheless, as he watched her, there was a slightly puzzled frown upon his forehead, a sense of something like bewilderment mingled with those other feelings.  His mother, who had turned to speak to the object of his attentions, beckoned him, and he crossed the room at once to their side.

“Julian is going to take you in to dinner, Miss Abbeway,” the Countess announced, “and I hope you will be kind to him, for he’s been out all night and a good part of the morning, too, shooting ducks and talking nonsense with a terrible Socialist.”

Lady Maltenby passed on.  Julian, leaning on his stick, looked down with a new interest into the face which had seldom been out of his thoughts since their first meeting, a few weeks ago.

“Tell me, Mr. Orden,” she asked, “which did you find the more exhausting—­tramping the marshes for sport, or discussing sociology with your friend?”

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “we didn’t tramp the marshes.  We stood still and got uncommonly wet.  And I shot a goose, which made me very happy.”

“Then it must have been the conversation,” she declared.  “Is your friend a prophet or only one of the multitude?”

“A prophet, most decidedly.  He is a Mr. Miles Furley, of whom you must have heard.”

She started a little.

“Miles Furley!” she repeated.  “I had no idea that he lived in this part of the world.”

“He has a small country house somewhere in Norfolk,” Julian told her, “and he takes a cottage down here at odd times for the wild-fowl shooting.”

“Will you take me to see him to-morrow?” she asked.

“With pleasure, so long as you promise not to talk socialism with him.”

“I will promise that readily, out of consideration to my escort.  I wonder how it is,” she went on, looking up at him a little thoughtfully, “that you dislike serious subjects so much.”