“Upon my word, Staff, it is the most brilliant house-party which I have ever joined; and as to your father in his character of host—­Well, words fail to express my admiration.”

Stafford glanced at his father at the head of the table and nodded.  Sir Stephen had been the life and soul and spring of the dinner; talking fashionable gossip to Lady Fitzharford on one side of him, and a “giddy girl of twenty” on the other; exchanging badinage with “Bertie,” and telling deeply interesting stories to the men; and he was now dragging reluctant laughter from the grim Baron Wirsch and the almost grimmer Griffenberg, as he saw with one eye that the wine was circulating, and with the other that no one was being overlooked or allowed to drop into dullness.

“A most marvellous man!  Nearly all the morning he was closeted with the financiers; in the afternoon he went for a ride with Lady Clansford; he was in attendance at the solemn function of afternoon tea; he played croquet—­and played it well—­at half-past five; at six I saw him walking round the grounds with the Effords and the Fitzharfords, and now he is laughing and talking with the abandon of a boy of five-and-twenty, while the boy of five-and-twenty sits here as grave and silent as if he had been working like a horse—­or a Sir Stephen Orme—­instead of fooling about the lake with the most beautiful woman in the party.”

“And his friend has spent the day in a deck-chair on the terrace,” retorted Stafford.

“At any rate, I have been out of mischief,” said Howard.  Then he remembered his wager with Maude Falconer, and added, rather remorsefully:  “At least I hope so.  By the way, don’t you echo my expression of opinion that Miss Falconer is the most beautiful woman here—­or elsewhere?”

Stafford woke from the reverie into which he nearly always dropped when Howard was talking, and nodded indifferently.

“Oh, yes; she is lovely, of course.”

“How good of you, how kind and gracious!” retorted Howard, ironically.  “So my prince deigns to approve of her?  And you also condescended to admit that she is—­er—­rather clever?”

“I daresay,” said Stafford.  “I’ve seen so little of her.  She seems to me rather blase and cold.”

Howard nodded.

“Yes; but the worst of it is, you can’t count upon that kind of girl:  they are apt to warm up sometimes, and quite unexpectedly:  and when they do they—­well, they boil like a geyser or a volcano.  And then—­well, then it is wise to get out of reach.  I once knew a woman who was considered to be as cold as charity—­or a rich relation—­but who caught fire one day and burnt up the man who ignited her.  Of course this is my delicate way of saying:  ‘Beware, oh, my prince!’”

Stafford smiled.  Miss Falconer’s nature was a matter of profound indifference to him.  There was only one woman on whom he could bestow a thought, and he was thinking of her now, wondering when he should see her, whether he might dare to tell her of his love again, to ask her for her answer.