“Some of those Hungarian things are jolly and funny, even though you can’t understand the words.  Makes you want to dance or sing yourself.”  Aleck groaned, but Melanie began to sing, with Jones hovering around the piano.  By the time Melanie had sung everybody’s favorites, excluding Aleck’s, Mr. Chamberlain rose to depart.  He was an Englishman, a serious, heavy gentleman, very loyal to old friends and very slow in making new ones.  He made an engagement to dine with Aleck on the following evening, and, as he went out, threw back to the remaining gentlemen an offer of seats in his machine.

“I ought to go,” said Jones; “but if Van Camp will stay, I will.  That is,” he added with belated punctiliousness, “if the ladies will permit?”

“Thank you, Chamberlain, I’m walking,” drawled Aleck; then turning to the company with his cheerful grin he stated quite impersonally:  “I was thinking of staying long enough to put one question—­er, a matter of some little importance—­to Miss Reynier.  When she gives me the desired information, I shall go.”

“Me, too,” chirped Mr. Lloyd-Jones.  “I came expressly to talk over that plan of building up friendly adjoining estates out in Idaho; sort of private shooting and hunting park, you know.  And I haven’t had a minute to say a word.”  Jones suddenly began to feel himself aggrieved.  As the door closed after Chamberlain, Melanie motioned them back to their seats.

“It’s not so very late,” she said easily.  “Come back and make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll listen to both of you,” she said with a demure little devil in her eye.  “I haven’t seen you for ages, and I don’t know when the good moment will come again.”  She included the two men in a friendly smile, waved a hand toward the waiting chairs, and adjusted a light shawl over the shoulders of Madame Reynier.

But Aleck by this time had the bit in his teeth and would not be coaxed.  His ordinarily cool eye rested wrathfully on the broad shoulders of Mr. Lloyd-Jones, who was lighting a cigarette, and he turned abruptly to Miss Reynier.  His voice was as serious as if Parliament, at least, had been hanging on his words.

“May I call to-morrow, Miss Reynier, at about twelve?”

“Oh, I say,” put in Jones, “all of you come to luncheon with me at the Little Gray Fox—­will you?  Capital place and all sorts of nice people.  Do come.  About one.”

Van Camp could have slain him.

“I think my proposition a prior one,” he remarked with dogged precision; “but, of course, Miss Reynier must decide.”  He recovered his temper enough to add, quite pleasantly, considering the circumstances, “Unless Madame Reynier will take my part?” turning to the older woman.

“Oh, no, not fair,” shouted Jones.  “Madame Reynier’s always on my side.  Aren’t you, Madame?”

Madame Reynier smiled inscrutably.  “I’m always on the side of virtue in distress,” she said.