His name was in the class of those vaguely familiar:  vaguely familiar, too, was his face.  An extraordinary face, Honora thought, glancing at it as she took his arm, although she was struck by something less tangible than the unusual features.  He might have belonged to any nationality within the limits of the Caucasian race.  His short, kinky, black hair suggested great virility, an effect intensified by a strongly bridged nose, sinewy hands, and bushy eyebrows.  But the intangible distinction was in the eyes that looked out from under these brows the glimpse she had of them as he bowed to her gravely, might be likened to the hasty reading of a chance page in a forbidden book.  Her attention was arrested, her curiosity aroused.  She was on that evening, so to speak, exposed for and sensitive to impressions.  She was on the threshold of the Alhambra.

“Hugh has such a faculty,” complained Mr. Grainger, “of turning up at the wrong moment!”

Dinner was announced.  She took Chiltern’s arm, and they fell into file behind a lady in yellow, with a long train, who looked at her rather hard.  It was Mrs. Freddy Maitland.  Her glance shifted to Chiltern, and it seemed to Honora that she started a little.

“Hello, Hugh,” she said indifferently, looking back over her shoulder; “have you turned up again?”

“Still sticking to the same side of your horse, I see.” he replied, ignoring the question.  “I told you you’d get lop-sided.”

The deformity, if there were any, did not seem to trouble her.

“I’m going to Florida Wednesday.  We want another man.  Think it over.”

“Sorry, but I’ve got something else to do,” he said.

“The devil and idle hands,” retorted Mrs. Maitland.

Honora was sure as she could be that Chiltern was angry, although he gave no visible sign of this.  It was as though the current ran from his arm into hers.

“Have you been away?” she asked.

“It seems to me as though I had never been anywhere else,” he answered, and he glanced curiously at the guests ranging about the great, flower-laden table.  They sat down.

She was a little repelled, a little piqued; and a little relieved when the man on her other side spoke to her, and she recognized Mr. Reginald Farwell, the architect.  The table capriciously swung that way.  She did not feel prepared to talk to Mr. Chiltern.  And before entering upon her explorations she was in need of a guide.  She could have found none more charming, none more impersonal, none more subtly aware of her wants (which had once been his) than Mr. Farwell.  With his hair parted with geometrical precision from the back of his collar to his forehead, with his silky mustache and eyes of soft hazel lights, he was all things to all men and women—­within reason.  He was an achievement that civilization had not hitherto produced, a combination of the Beaux Arts and the Jockey Club and American adaptability.  He was of those upon whom labour leaves no trace.