The exclusive Mr. Eames was absent.  He sat at home, thinking how narrowly he had escaped imprisonment at the hands of Signor Malipizzo, in connection with Muhlen’s disappearance.  The closest shave of all his life!  It showed how right Keith had been in bidding him keep on the right side of the law—­on the right side of the judge—­rather than trust to the promptings of a “good conscience.”  The Duchess likewise sent her excuses.  She was so troubled about the pamphlet that Don Francesco hardly dared to leave her side.  He, therefore, was also absent; so was the bereaved Commissioner.  Mrs. Meadows had driven home again long ago.  Van Koppen intended to sail in the early hours of next morning.  The bishop and Denis were likewise on the verge of departure.  A break-up was at hand.

Mr. Keith alone refused to budge.  He was waiting for the first cicada whose strident call was due, he declared, in a week’s time.  Till then he proposed to remain on Nepenthe.

Fancy waiting for an insect,” said his friend van Koppen.  “I believe, Keith, you’ve got a sentimental streak somewhere.”

“I have been fighting against it all my life.  A man ought to dominate his reflexes.  But if the insect keeps good time—­why not?”

He was in an elegiac mood, though he meant to drive away his cares later in the evening by the “Falernian system.”  He felt the exodus in the air.  Another spring drawing to its close—­everybody scattering!  He was filled, too, with that peculiar pensiveness which troubles complex people when they have done a kindly act.  Virtue had gone out of him.

He had wrought a miracle.

The moist look in the eye of his hostess testified to the miracle; so did her frock which, being of pink muslin, harmonized with the state of her mind but not with her complexion.  Peter the Great had escaped from prison.  Not only he, but all the others were at liberty once more, including the Messiah who, after some attentions on the part of the communal doctor, had been put to bed like a little child.  The rest of them filled her trim walks with their gleeful laughter and bright raiment; they devoured abundant wines and food at those refreshment tables which groaned under the weight of good things.  One could trust Madame Steynlin to attend to the commissariat department.  She knew how to gladden the human heart.  That of Peter the Great was gladdened to such an extent that he soon began to perform a Russian peasant dance, A Pas SEUL, to the delight of the assembled guests.  It was a cheery interlude with a disastrous ending, for the rough terrace being different from what he expected, he stumbled and fell full length upon the ground.  There he lay, laughing, like a young giant refreshed with wine.

“I don’t know how you have done it, Mr. Keith,” she said, “and I am not going to ask.  But I shall never forget this kindness of yours.”