Gervase moved restlessly; then filling for himself a glass of claret, drained it off thirstily.

“Something of the same kind has happened to me,” he said with a hard, mirthless laugh, “for out of the most perfect beauty I have only succeeded in presenting an atrocity.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward.  “What a disappointing day you must have had!  But of course, you will try again; the Princess will surely give you another sitting?”

“Oh, yes!  I shall certainly try again and yet again, and ever so many times again,” said Gervase, with a kind of angry obstinacy in his tone, “the more so as she has told me I will never succeed in painting her.”

“She told you that, did she?” put in Dr. Dean, with an air of lively interest.

“Yes.”

Just then the handing round of fresh dishes and the clatter of knives and forks effectually put a stop to the conversation for the time, and Gervase presently glancing about him saw that Denzil Murray and his sister were dining apart at a smaller table with young Lord Fulkeward and Ross Courtney.  Helen was looking her fairest and best that evening—­her sweet face, framed in its angel aureole of bright hair had a singular look of pureness and truth expressed upon it rare to find in any woman beyond her early teens.  Unconsciously to himself, Gervase sighed as he caught a view of her delicate profile, and Lady Fulkeward’s sharp ears heard the sound of that sigh.

“Isn’t that a charming little party over there?” she asked.  “Young people, you know!  They always like to be together!  That very sweet girl, Miss Murray, was so much distressed about her brother to-day,—­something was the matter with him—­a touch of fever, I believe,—­that she begged me to let Fulke dine with them in order to distract Mr. Denzil’s mind.  Fulke is a dear boy, you know—­very consoling in his ways, though he says so little.  Then Mr. Courtney volunteered to join them, and there they are.  The Chetwynd Lyles are gone to a big dinner at the Continental this evening.”

“The Chetwynd Lyles—­let me see.  Who are they?” mused Gervase aloud, “Do I know them?”

“No,—­that is, you have not been formally introduced,” said Dr. Dean.”  Sir Chetwynd Lyle is the editor and proprietor of the London Daily Dial, Lady Chetwynd Lyle is his wife, and the two elderly-youthful ladies who appeared as ‘Boulogne fishwives’ last night at the ball are his daughters.”

“Cruel man!” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward with a girlish giggle.  “The idea of calling those sweet girls, Muriel and Dolly, ’elderly-youthful!’”

“What are they, my dear madam, what are they?” demanded the imperturbable little savant. “‘Elderly-youthful’ is a very convenient expression, and applies perfectly to people who refuse to be old and cannot possibly be young.”

“Nonsense!  I will not listen to you!” and her ladyship opened her jewelled fan and spread it before her eyes to completely screen the objectionable Doctor from view.  “Don’t you know your theories are quite out of date?  Nobody is old,—­we all utterly refuse to be old!  Why,” and she shut her fan with a sudden jerk, “I shall have you calling me old next.”