“Algernon is at least in earnest,” she remarked drily.  “And he has the good conscience of a clean living and honest man.”

“What an unpleasant possession it must be,” Lady Carey remarked sweetly.  “I disposed of my conscience finally many years ago.  I am not sure, but I believe that it was the Prince to whom I entrusted the burying of it.  By the bye, Lucille will be here directly, I suppose.  Is she to be told of Souspennier’s arrival in London?”

“I imagine,” the Prince said, with knitted brows, “that it will not be wise to keep it from her.  It is impossible to conceal her whereabouts, and the papers will very shortly acquaint her with his.”

“And,” Lady Carey asked, “how does the little affair progress?”

“Admirably,” the Prince answered.  “Already some of the Society papers are beginning to chatter about the friendship existing between a Cabinet Minister and a beautiful Hungarian lady of title, etc., etc.  The fact of it is that Brott is in deadly earnest.  He gives himself away every time.  If Lucille has not lost old cleverness she will be able to twist him presently around her little finger.”

“If only some one would twist him on the rack,” the Duchess murmured vindictively.  “I tried to read one of his speeches the other day.  It was nothing more nor less than blasphemy.  I do not think that I am naturally a cruel woman, but I would hand such men over to the public executioner with joy.”

Lucille came in, as beautiful as ever, but with tired lines under her full dark eyes.  She sank into a low chair with listless grace.

“Reginald Brott again, I suppose,” she remarked curtly.  “I wish the man had never existed.”

“That is a very cruel speech, Lucille,” the Prince said, with a languishing glance towards her, “for if it had not been for Brott we should never have dared to call you out from your seclusion.”

“Then more heartily than ever,” Lucille declared, “I wish the man had never been born.  You cannot possibly flatter yourself, Prince, that your summons was a welcome one.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I shall never, be able to believe,” he said, “that the Countess Radantz was able to do more than support existence in a small American town—­without society, with no scope for her ambitions, detached altogether from the whole civilized world.”

“Which only goes to prove, Prince,” Lucille remarked contemptuously, “that you do not understand me in the least.  As a place of residence Lenox would compare very favourably with—­say Homburg, and for companionship you forget my husband.  I never met the woman yet who did not prefer the company of one man, if only it were the right one, to the cosmopolitan throng we call society.”

“It sounds idyllic, but very gauche,” Lady Carey remarked drily.  “In effect it is rather a blow on the cheek for you, Prince.  Of course you know that the Prince is in love with you, Lucille?”