The guests were gathered in the hall drinking sherry and bitters, a proceeding that to Alan’s mind set a stamp upon the house.  His host, Mr. Champers-Haswell, came forward and greeted him with much affectionate enthusiasm, and Alan noticed that he looked very pale, also that his thoughts seemed to be wandering, for he introduced a French banker to him as a noted Jew, and the noted Jew as the French banker, although the distinction between them was obvious and the gentlemen concerned evidently resented the mistake.  Sir Robert Aylward, catching sight of him, came across the hall in his usual, direct fashion, and shook him by the hand.

“Glad to see you, Vernon,” he said, fixing his piercing eyes upon Alan as though he were trying to read his thoughts.  “Pleasant change this from the City and all that eternal business, isn’t it?  Ah! you are thinking that one is not quite clear of business after all,” and he glanced round at the company.  “That’s one of your cousin Haswell’s faults; he can never shake himself free of the thing, never get any real recreation.  I’d bet you a sovereign that he has a stenographer waiting by a telephone in the next room, just in case any opportunity should arise in the course of conversation.  That is magnificent, but it is not wise.  His heart can’t stand it; it will wear him out before his time.  Listen, they are all talking about the Sahara.  I wish I were there; it must be quiet at any rate.  The sands beneath, the eternal stars above.  Yes, I wish I were there,” he repeated with a sigh, and Alan noted that although his face could not be more pallid than its natural colour, it looked quite worn and old.

“So do I,” he answered with enthusiasm.

Then a French gentleman on his left, having discovered that he was the engineer who had formulated the great flooding scheme, began to address him as “Cher maitre,” speaking so rapidly his own language that Alan, whose French was none of the best, struggled after him in vain.  Whilst he was trying to answer a question which he did not understand, the door at the end of the hall opened, and through it appeared Barbara Champers.

It was a large hall and she was a long way off, which caused her to look small, who indeed was only of middle height.  Yet even at that distance it was impossible to mistake the dignity of her appearance.  A slim woman with brown hair, cheerful brown eyes, a well-modelled face, a rounded figure and an excellent complexion, such was Barbara.  Ten thousand young ladies could be found as good, or even better looking, yet something about her differentiated her from the majority of her sex.  There was determination in her step, and overflowing health and vigour in her every movement.  Her eyes had a trick of looking straight into any other eyes they met, not boldly, but with a kind of virginal fearlessness and enterprise that people often found embarrassing.  Indeed she was extremely virginal and devoid of the usual fringe of feminine airs and graces, a nymph of the woods and waters, who although she was three and twenty, as yet recked little of men save as companions whom she liked or disliked according to her instincts.  For the rest she was sweetly dressed in a white robe with silver on it, and wore no ornaments save a row of small pearls about her throat and some lilies of the valley at her breast.