“Where is Lady Dominey?” he asked.

“In my room, waiting until her own is prepared.”

Seaman’s manner was unusually grave.

“My friend,” he said, “you know very well that when we walk in the great paths of life I am unscrupulous.  In those other hours, alas!  I have a weakness,—­I love women.”

“Well?” Dominey muttered.

“I will admit,” the other continued, “that you are placed in a delicate and trying position.  Lady Dominey seems disposed to offer to you the affection which, notwithstanding their troubles together, she doubtless felt for her husband.  I risk your anger, my friend, but I warn you to be very careful how you encourage her.”

A light flashed in Dominey’s eyes.  For the moment angry words seemed to tremble upon his lips.  Seaman’s manner, however, was very gentle.  He courted no offence.

“If you were to take advantage of your position with—­with any other, I would shrug my shoulders and stand on one side, but this mad Englishman’s wife, or rather his widow, has been mentally ill.  She is still weak-minded, just as she is tender-hearted.  I watched her as she passed through the hall with you just now.  She turns to you for love as a flower to the sun after a long spell of cold, wet weather.  Von Ragastein, you are a man of honour.  You must find means to deal with this situation, however difficult it may become.”

Dominey had recovered from his first wave of weakness.  His companion’s words excited no sentiment of anger.  He was conscious even of regarding him with a greater feeling of kindness than ever before.

“My friend,” he said, “you have shown me that you are conscious of one dilemma in which I find myself placed, and which I confess is exercising me to the utmost.  Let me now advise you of another.  The Princess Eiderstrom has brought me an autograph letter from the Kaiser, commanding me to marry her.”

“The situation,” Seaman declared grimly, “but for its serious side, would provide all the elements for a Palais Royal farce.  For the present, however, you have duties below.  I have said the words which were thumping against the walls of my heart.”

Their descent was opportune.  Some of the local guests were preparing to make their departure, and Dominey was in time to receive their adieux.  They all left messages for Lady Dominey, spoke of a speedy visit to her, and expressed themselves as delighted to hear of her return and recovery.  As the last car rolled away, Caroline took her host’s arm and led him to a chimney seat by the huge log fire in the inner hall.

“My dear Everard,” she said, “you really are a very terrible person.”

“Exactly why?” he demanded.

“Your devotion to my sex,” she continued, “is flattering but far too catholic.  Your return to England appears to have done what we understood to be impossible—­restored your wife’s reason.  A fiery-headed Hungarian Princess has pursued you down here, and has now gone to her room in a tantrum because you left her side for a few minutes to welcome your wife.  And there remains our own sentimental little flirtation, a broken and, alas, a discarded thing!  There is no doubt whatever, Everard, that you are a very bad lot.”