Innocent murmured something gently deprecatory as a palliative to this sort of society “gush” which always troubled her—­and moved on.  Everybody gazed, whispered and wondered, astonished at the youth and evident unworldliness of the “author of those marvellous books!”—­so the commentary ran;—­the women criticised her gown, which was one of pale blue silken stuff caught at the waist and shoulders by quaint clasps of dull gold—­a gown with nothing remarkable about it save its cut and fit—­melting itself, as it were, around her in harmonious folds of fine azure which suggested without emphasising the graceful lines of her form.  The men looked, and said nothing much except “A pity she’s a writing woman!  Mucking about Fleet Street!”—­mere senseless talk which they knew to be senseless, inasmuch as “mucking” about Fleet Street is no part of any writer’s business save that of the professional journalist.  Happily ignorant of comment, the girl made her way quietly and unobtrusively through the splendid throng, till she was presently addressed by a stoutish, pleasant-featured man, with small twinkling eyes and an agreeable surface manner.

“I missed you just now when my wife received you,” he said—­“May I present myself?  I am your host—­proud of the privilege!”

Innocent smiled as she bowed and held out her hand; she was amused, and taken a little by surprise.  This was the Duke of Deanshire—­this quite insignificant-looking personage—­he was the owner of the great house and the husband of the great lady,—­and yet he had the appearance of a very ordinary nobody.  But that he was a “somebody” of paramount importance there was no doubt; and when he said, “May I give you my arm and take you through the rooms?  There are one or two pictures you may like to see,” she was a little startled.  She looked round for Miss Leigh, but that tactful lady, seeing the position, had disappeared.  So she laid her little cream-gloved hand on the Duke’s arm and went with him, shyly at first, yet with a pretty stateliness which was all her own, and moving slowly among the crowd of guests, gradually recovered her ease and self-possession, and began to talk to him with a delightful naturalness and candour which fairly captivated His Grace, in fact, “bowled him over,” as he afterwards declared.  She was blissfully unaware that his manner of escorting her on his arm through the long vista of the magnificent rooms had been commanded and arranged by the Duchess, in order that she should be well looked at and criticised by all assembled as the “show” person of the evening.  She was so unconscious of the ordeal to which she was being subjected that she bore it with the perfect indifference which such unconsciousness gives.  All at once the Duke came to a standstill.

“Here is a great friend of mine—­one of the best I have in the world,” he said—­“I want to introduce him to you,”—­this, as a tall old man paused near them with a smile and enquiring glance, “Lord Blythe—­Miss Armitage.”