“Don’t talk like that, my poor one,” she said.  “Shall I take you upstairs to your own room?”

“No, I think I should faint if I had to go upstairs,” I answered.  “Yet I can’t stay here.  What shall I do?”

“What about Uncle Eric’s study?” Di asked.  She always calls Lord Mountstuart ‘Uncle Eric,’ though he isn’t her uncle.  Her mother and his wife were sisters, that’s all:  and then there was the other sister who married the British Secretary for Foreign Affairs, a cousin of Lord Mountstuart’s.  That family seemed to have a craze for American girls; but Lord Mountstuart makes an exception of me.  He’s civil, of course, because he’s an abject slave of Di’s, and she refused to come and pay a visit in England without me:  but I give him the shivers, I know very well:  and I take an impish joy in making him jump.

“I’m sure he won’t be there this evening,” Di went on, when I hesitated.  “He’s playing bridge with a lot of dear old boys in the library, or was, half an hour ago.  Come, let me help you there.  It’s only a step.”

She put her pretty arm round my waist, and leaning on her I walked across the room, out into a corridor, through a tiny “bookroom” where odd volumes and old magazines are kept, into Lord Mountstuart’s study.

It is a nice room, which he uses much as his wife uses her boudoir.  The library next door is rather a show place, but the study has only Lord Mountstuart’s favourite books in it.  He writes there (he has written a novel or two, and thinks himself literary), and some pictures he has painted in different parts of the world hang on the walls:  for he also fancies himself artistic.

In one corner is a particularly comfortable, cushiony lounge where, I suppose, the distinguished author lies and thinks out his subjects, or dreams them out.  And it was to this that Di led me.

She settled me among some fat pillows of old purple and gold brocade, and asked if she should ring and get a little brandy.

“No,” I said, “I shall feel better in a few minutes.  It’s so nice and cool here.”

“You look better already!” exclaimed Di.  “Soon, when you’ve lain and rested awhile, you’ll be a different girl.”

“Ah, how I wish I could be a different girl!” I sighed.  “A strong, well girl, and tall and beautiful, and admired by everyone,—­like you—­or Maxine de Renzie.”

“What makes you think of her?” asked Di, quickly.

“Ivor was just talking to me of her.  You know he calls me his ‘pal,’ and tells me things he doesn’t tell everybody.  He thinks a great deal about Maxine, still.”

“She’d be a difficult woman to forget, if she’s as attractive off the stage as she is on.”

“What a pity we didn’t come in time to meet here when she was playing in London with George Allendale.  Everybody used to invite her to their houses, it seems.  Ivor was telling me that he first met her here, and that it’s such a pleasant memory, whenever he comes to this house.  I suppose that’s one reason he likes to come so much.”