characteristic of a certain dull and self-centred type of woman.  We were soon seated at table—­a table richly, yet daintily, appointed, and adorned with the costliest flowers and fruits.  The men who waited upon us were all Easterns, dark-eyed and dark-skinned, and wore the Eastern dress,—­ all their movements were swift yet graceful and dignified—­they made no noise in the business of serving,—­not a dish clattered, not a glass clashed.  They were perfect servants, taking care to avoid the common but reprehensible method of offering dishes to persons conversing, thus interrupting the flow of talk at inopportune moments.  And what talk it was!—­all sorts of subjects, social and impersonal, came up for discussion, and Santoris handled them with such skill that he made us forget that there was anything remarkable or unusual about himself or his surroundings, though, as a matter of fact, no more princely banquet could ever have been served in the most luxurious of palaces.  Half-way through the meal, when the conversation came for a moment to a pause, the most exquisite music charmed our ears—­beginning softly and far away, it swelled out to rich and glorious harmonies like a full orchestra playing under the sea.  We looked at each other and then at our host in charmed enquiry.

“Electricity again!” he said—­“So simply managed that it is not worth talking about!  Unfortunately, it is mechanical music, and this can never be like the music evolved from brain and fingers; however, it fills in gaps of silence when conventional minds are at a strain for something to say—­something quite ‘safe’ and unlikely to provoke discussion!”

His keen blue eyes flashed with a sudden gleam of scorn in them.  I looked at him half questioningly, and the scorn melted into a smile.

“It isn’t good form to start any subject which might lead to argument,” he went on—­“The modern brain must not be exercised too strenuously,—­it is not strong enough to stand much effort.  What do you say, Harland?”

“I agree,” answered Mr. Harland.  “As a rule people who dine as well as we are dining to-night have no room left for mentality—­they become all digestion!”

Dr. Brayle laughed.

“Nothing like a good dinner if one has an appetite for it.  I think it quite possible that Faust would have left his Margaret for a full meal!”

“I’m sure he would!” chimed in Mr. Swinton—­“Any man would!”

Santoris looked down the table with a curious air of half-amused inspection.  His eyes, clear and searching in their swift glance, took in the whole group of us—­Mr. Harland enjoying succulent asparagus; Dr. Brayle drinking champagne; Mr. Swinton helping himself out of some dish of good things offered to him by one of the servants; Catherine playing in a sort of demure, old-maidish way with knife and fork as if she were eating against her will—­and finally they rested on me, to whom the dinner was just a pretty pageant of luxury in which I scarcely took any part.