Rosamund and the Princess had issued from the house, and the two men hastened to meet them.  The latter looked charming, exquisitely gowned, and stately in appearance.  By her side Rosamund, dressed with the same success but in younger fashion, seemed almost like a child.  They passed into the luncheon room, crowded with many little parties of distinguished and interesting people, brilliant with the red livery of the waiters, the profusion of flowers—­all that nameless elegance which had made the place society’s most popular rendezvous.  The women, as they settled into their places, asked a question which was on the lips of a great many English people of that day.

“Is there any news?”

Terniloff perhaps felt that he was the cynosure of many eager and anxious eyes.  He smiled light-heartedly as he answered: 

“None.  If there were, I am convinced that it would be good.  I have been allowed to play out my titanic struggle against Sir Everard without interruption.”

“I suppose the next important question to whether it is to be peace or war is, how did you play?” the Princess asked.

“I surpassed myself,” her husband replied, “but of course no ordinary human golfer is of any account against Dominey.  He plays far too well for any self-respecting Ger—­”

The Ambassador broke off and paused while he helped himself to mayonnaise.

“For any self-respecting German to play against,” he concluded.

Luncheon was a very pleasant meal, and a good many people noticed the vivacity of the beautiful Lady Dominey whose picture was beginning to appear in the illustrated papers.  Afterwards they drank coffee and sipped liqueurs under the great elm tree on the lawn, listening to the music and congratulating themselves upon having made their escape from London.  In the ever-shifting panorama of gaily-dressed women and flannel-clad men, the monotony of which was varied here and there by the passing of a diplomatist or a Frenchman, scrupulously attired in morning clothes, were many familiar faces.  Caroline and a little group of friends waved to them from the terrace.  Eddy Pelham, in immaculate white, and a long tennis coat with dark blue edgings, paused to speak to them on his way to the courts.

“How is the motor business, Eddy?” Dominey asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“So, so!  I’m not quite so keen as I was.  To tell you the truth,” the young man confided, glancing around and lowering his voice so that no one should share the momentous information, “I was lucky enough to pick up a small share in Jere Moore’s racing stable at Newmarket, the other day.  I fancy I know a little more about gee-gees than I do about the inside of motors, what?”

“I should think very possibly that you are right,” Dominey assented, as the young man passed on with a farewell salute.

Terniloff looked after him curiously.

“It is the type of young man, that,” he declared, “which we cannot understand.  What would happen to him, in the event of a war?  In the event of his being called upon, say, either to fight or do some work of national importance for his country?”