“Then Joseph P. Mangles is getting on.”

“What is he?” repeated Cartoner.

“He is in the service of his country, my friend, like any other poor devil—­like you or me, for instance.  He spends half of his time kicking his heels in New York, or wherever they kick their heels in America.  The rest of his time he is risking his health, or possibly his neck, wherever it may please the fates to send him.  If he had been properly trained, he might have done something, that Joseph P. Mangles; for he can hold his tongue.  But he took to it late, as they all do in America.  So he has come across, has he?  Yes, the storm-birds are congregating, my silent friend.  There is something in the wind.”

Deulin raised his long, thin nose into the dusty May air and sniffed it.

“Was that girl with them?” he inquired presently—­“Miss Netty Cahere?”

“Yes.”

“I always make love to Miss Cahere—­she likes it best.”

Cartoner stared straight in front of him, and made no comment.  The Frenchman gave a laugh, which was not entirely pleasant.  It was rare that his laugh was harsh, but such a note rang in it now.  They did not speak again until they had walked some distance northward of Piccadilly, and stopped before a house with white window-boxes.  Several carriages stood at the other side of the road against the square railings.

“Is it her day?” inquired Deulin.

“Yes.”

Deulin made a grimace expressive of annoyance.

“And we shall see a number of people we had better not see.  But, since we are here, let us go in—­with a smile on the countenance, eh? my brave Cartoner.”

“And a lie on the tongue.”

“There I will meet you, too,” replied Deulin, looking into his card-case.

They entered the house, and, as Deulin had predicted, there found a number of people assembled, who noted, no doubt, that they had come together.  It was observable that this was not a congregation of fashionable or artistic people; for the women were dressed quietly, and the men were mostly old and white-haired.  It was also dimly perceptible that there was a larger proportion of brain in the room than is allotted to the merely fashionable, or to that shallow mixture of the dramatic and pictorial, which is usually designated the artistic world.  Moreover, scraps of conversation reached the ear that led the hearer to conclude that the house was in its way a miniature Babel.

The two men separated on the threshold, and Deulin went forward to shake hands with a tall, white-haired woman, who was the centre of a vivacious group.  Over the heads of her guests this lady had already perceived Cartoner, who was making his way more slowly through the crowd.  He seemed to have more friends there than Deulin.  Lady Orlay at length went to meet Cartoner, and as they shook hands, one of those slight and indefinable family resemblances which start up at odd moments became visible.