Her rooms in that disused convent were an interminable suite of rectangular chambers, unpretentious but solidly built, with straight corridors running alongside.  You beheld pretty pavements of old-fashioned tiles, not overmuch furniture, one or two portraits of the Pope, and abundance of flowers and crucifixes.  The Duchess specialized in flowers and crucifixes.  Everybody, aware of her fondness for them, gave her either the one or the other, or both.  An elaborate arrangement for tea occupied one of the rooms; there was also a cold buffet for gentlemen—­brandies and wines and iced soda-water and lobster sandwiches and suchlike.

A many-tongued conversation filled the air with pleasant murmurs.  Various nationalities were represented, though the Russian colony was conspicuous by its absence.  The Duchess, like Mr. Freddy Parker, drew the line at Russians.  If only they would not dress so oddly, with those open collars, leathern belts, and scarlet blouses!  The judge, also, was never asked to come—­he was too outspoken a freethinker, and too fond of spitting on the floor.  Nor did Mr. Eames put in an appearance.  He avoided social obligations; his limited means preventing him from making any adequate return.  But there was an ample display of ecclesiastics, together with a few other notabilities.  Mr. Heard encountered some familiar faces, and made new friends.  He felt drawn towards Madame Steynlin—­she had such a cheerful bright face.

“And how delightfully cool these rooms are!” he was saying to the Duchess.  “I wonder how you manage to keep the sirocco out?”

“By closing the windows, Bishop.  English people will not believe that.  They open their windows.  In comes the heat.”

“If English people closed their windows they would die,” said Don Francesco.  “Half the houses in England would be condemned by law in this country and pulled down, on account of their low ceilings.  Low ceilings have given the Englishman his cult of fresh air.  He likes to be cosy and familiar and exclusive; he has no sense for broad social functions.  There is something of the cave-dweller in every Englishman.  He may say what he likes, but the humble cottage will always remain his dream.  You can tell the ideals of a nation by its advertisements.  This country is pastoral.  That is why our advertisements are so apt to portray commercial conditions—­enormous factories and engines and chimneys; we are dissatisfied with our agricultural state.  The Frenchman’s aspiration is woman; Paris hoardings will tell you that.  England is a land of industrial troglodytes, where every man’s cavern is his castle.  Its advertisements depict either gross masses of food such as cave-dwellers naturally relish, or else quiet country scenes—­green lanes, and sunsets, and peaceful dwellings in the country.  Home, sweet home!  The cottage!  That means open windows or suffocation. . . .  I think I see the person who spoke to you on the steamer,” he added to Mr. Heard.  “I don’t like his looks.  He is coming our way.”