“If that would interest you all,” Madame Selarne assented, “it commences—­so!”

For a time they nearly all listened in absorbed silence.  Her gestures, the tricks of her voice, the uplifting of her eyebrows and shoulders—­all helped to give life and colour to the little sketch she expounded.  Only those at the remote end of the table ventured upon an independent conversation.  Mrs. Cunningham, the woman whom her hostess had referred to as being her particular friend, and one who shared her passion for entertaining, chatted fitfully to her neighbour, Major Thomson.  It was not until luncheon was more than half-way through that she realised the one-sidedness of their conversation.  She studied him for a moment curiously.  There was something very still and expressionless in his face, even though the sunshine from the broad high windows which overlooked the Park, was shining full upon him.

“Tell me about yourself!” she insisted suddenly.  “I have been talking rubbish quite long enough.  You have been out, haven’t you?”

He assented gravely.

“I went with the first division.  At that time I was in charge of a field hospital.”

“And now?”

“I am Chief Inspector of Field Hospitals,” he replied.

“You are home on leave?”

“Not exactly,” he told her, a shade of stiffness in his manner.  “I have to come over very often on details connected with the administration of my work.”

“I should have known quite well that you were a surgeon,” she observed.

“You are a physiognomist, then?”

“More or less,” she admitted.  “You see, I love people.  I love having people around me.  My friends find me a perfect nuisance, for I am always wanting to give parties.  You have the still, cold face of a surgeon—­and the hands, too,” she added, glancing at them.

“You are very observant,” he remarked laconically.

“I am also curious,” she laughed, “as you are about to discover.  Tell me why you are so interested in Ronnie Granet?  You hadn’t met him before, had you?”

Almost for the first time he turned and looked directly at his neighbour.  She was a woman whose fair hair was turning grey, well-dressed, sprightly, agreeable.  She had a humorous mouth and an understanding face.

“Captain Granet was a stranger to me,” he assented.  “One is naturally interested in soldiers, however.”

“You must have met thousands like him,” she remarked,—­“good-looking, very British, keen sportsman, lots of pluck, just a little careless, hating to talk about himself and serious things.  I have known him since he was a boy.”

Major Thomson continued to be gravely interested.

“Granet!” he said to himself thoughtfully, “Do I know any of his people, I wonder?”

“You know some of his connections, of course,” Mrs. Cunningham replied briskly.  “Sir Alfred Anselman, for instance, his uncle.”