Lady Lane-Johnson looked about her handsome drawing-room with critical gaze. She moved a bowl of roses to a more effective position, loosened a sheaf of Madonna lilies in a crystal vase. The atmosphere was fragrant with the perfume of costly flowers; the whole room betokened prosperity combined with good taste, from the excellent examples of modern Art on the brocade-hung walls to the Aubusson carpet and the silk curtains that subdued the sound of traffic through the open windows. And Philip Flint's sister harmonised with her surroundings, an elegant, well-bred looking woman in a Paris gown, diamonds in her hair, round her neck, at her breast.

She consulted her list of expected guests; the pairing for this dinner party had entailed an unusual amount of consideration. In such undertakings John was of no use whatever; he would rush in at the last moment, and unless she took care would probably seize absentmindedly on the first lady he saw and hurry her down to dinner. Even now he had not returned; if she heard him on the stairs before the arrivals began she must catch him and remind him that he was to take in old Lady Bawe (though he always declared her name ought to be spelt Bore). She herself must put up with Lord Redgate, disagreeable creature, but the laws of etiquette forbade any other arrangement; anyway she would have Carmine Lake, the fashionable portrait painter, on her other side, and he was good company. Her own parents were rather on her mind; her father never considered the political feelings of his neighbours, and invariably suspected her literary and artistic friends of being Radicals. Concerning Lord Redgate's opinions there could be no question of anything so mild as "suspicion," and she had therefore placed the two gentlemen as far apart at the dinner table as possible. She knew her mother felt "out of it" among actors and painters, and authors, and John's distinguished professional colleagues with their wives who were always busy over public meetings and charity entertainments patronised by Royalty.

As a rule she did not invite her old-fashioned parents to her dinner parties; they preferred to come quietly, when she had an evening to spare, but to-night their presence was unavoidable, because Philip had just arrived from India (she had not even seen him yet), and she particularly wanted him and "the old people" to meet Lord Redgate and his daughter Dorothy, who had known Philip in India two years ago; and if she, Grace, were not greatly mistaken the young lady would like to meet him again as often as possible! Lord Redgate would not have said "Thank you" had she bidden him to a quiet family gathering; that would have to come later if matters shaped as she hoped they might. It would be such an excellent marriage for Philip; Lord Redgate had so much influence, his son-in-law would be pushed on regardless of obstacles, however glaring the "job"; his one weakness was his self-willed, impulsive daughter, who publicly boasted that she could turn her father round her little finger!

Grace knew from Dorothy that she and Philip had kept up a desultory correspondence since their parting in India. She wondered if she would have time to pump Philip in the matter of his feelings towards the girl if he and the old people arrived early, as she had told them to do. She hoped Philip would not look too "Indian." His clothes were sure to be all wrong, seeing that he had arrived only three days ago, during her absence in the country for a week-end visit. The dinner party had been hastily convened, with apologies and explanations for the short notice, directly his telegram came from Marseilles.

Was that John on the stairs? She flew to the door and saw her husband ascending leisurely.

"Make haste, darling," she called, "and remember you are to take in Lady Bawe."

"Why, is there a dinner party?" He blinked at her dreamily; his scanty hair was ruffled, he looked tried, over-strained. That afternoon he had been engaged on a stupendous operation, and the reaction of success was still upon him.

"Yes, yes, I told you! Go along quickly and dress."

"You look wonderful," he said, smiling at her.

She knew he was proud of her, that he grudged her nothing in the world, that the money he made gave him pleasure principally for her sake, yet sometimes he provoked her almost past bearing, his forgetfulness, his blindness to the value of her social triumphs that were undoubtedly an indirect asset to him in his calling. His calling came first with him, she came second; and there were no children, nothing to fill her life beyond the eternal round of engagements and social successes, which during the last ten years had become a sort of second nature to her. Now she looked forward to match-making on her brother's behalf.

The front door bell rang. "There!" She waved her husband up the stairs. "Don't be longer than you can help, and whatever you do, remember Lady Bawe."

"Lady Bawe," he repeated, and quickened his steps obediently.

Presently Sir Philip and Lady Flint, and Mr. Flint, were announced.

"Well, mother—well, father." Grace kissed her parents, then turned to embrace her brother. "Philip," she cried, "how you have altered! Is it really you?"

She could hardly believe that this sun-baked, middle-aged man, growing rather bald, with the set face and grave eyes, was Philip. Her remembrance of him last time he was on furlough was so different. Then he had looked almost boyish, full of spirits, enjoying every moment of his leave, yet enthusiastic over his prospects when he should return to his work. Now he looked as if nothing would ever arouse his enthusiasm or high spirits again. He even showed little pleasure at seeing her, and they had been such pals in the old days! Grace supposed it was the want of rest and change that ailed him. He ought to have come home two years ago, after all his hard work over the famine, instead of being tempted to stay on in a responsible position that, whatever it might lead to, could hardly be worth the sacrifice of health. She thought he looked far from well as she drew him aside and whispered:

"Who do you think is coming to-night on purpose to meet you again?"

"Tell me," he said indifferently.

"Dorothy Baker."

It was a relief to see his face light up with a certain amount of interest. "Dorothy Baker! Just fancy! And when I last saw her——"

His memory turned to an Indian junction and a native-crowded platform, a dimly lit railway carriage, and Dorothy Baker with all her wild ideas, her conceit and her flashes of humility, her freckled face and slim, long figure. "Then she knows I am at home? I'm afraid I didn't write and tell her I was coming."

"Yes, she knows, and presently she and her father will be here. This party is in your honour, dear old boy."

"Very kind of you." There was no more than politeness in his tone, but his sister observed that he looked towards the door as though watching for the arrival of Dorothy Baker.

Mr. Carmine Lake was announced, and Lady Lane-Johnson welcomed him with effusion. Sir Philip Flint glared disapproval of the celebrated artist's abundant locks and soft, tucked shirt, glared more fiercely still on the couple that followed, whose name was well known in Liberal circles, though the gentleman present was only a relative of the real culprit. The room filled quickly. Lord Redgate and his daughter were the last to arrive.

Dorothy entered swiftly, eager, animated, dressed as usual, simply but expensively. Her gown was of a soft shade of green that suited her tawny colouring. Lady Lane-Johnson thought she had never seen the girl look better—quite pretty, in spite of her strong resemblance to her father, whose irregular features and ruddy complexion she had inherited in a refined and more kindly form. Lord Redgate was an ugly man, but no one could say that his daughter was ugly or even plain.

As Lady Lane-Johnson greeted the pair Philip came forward. He was glad to see Miss Baker again, and Miss Baker made no concealment of her own delight. Her evident pleasure, though it could hardly fail to flatter his vanity, caused Philip a slight feeling of embarrassment. He had never realised that the girl liked him to such an extent; in fact, he remembered that at the time of their parting she had appeared almost indifferent to him. Her heart must have grown fonder with absence.

"Pater," she said, turning to her father, "this is Mr. Flint, who was so kind to me in India, you remember."

Lord Redgate shook hands without speaking. Philip encountered a searching gaze from beneath the shaggy red eyebrows. He felt he was being "sized up."

"You will take Miss Baker down to dinner," Grace told her brother, "and you must put up with me, Lord Redgate, though"—with an engaging smile—"I can't talk about labour troubles, and 'back to the land,' or anything of that kind, you know."

He grunted. Certainly Lord Redgate's strong point was not "manners."

"Now we are all here," went on Lady Lane-Johnson, not at all disconcerted—she had expected nothing else from her distinguished guest, peer of the realm with unlimited riches though he was—"except John, of course." Consulting her list, she went in and out among the company allotting partners, while Miss Baker chattered with a sort of nervous excitement to Philip.

"And how is India? It seems more like twenty years to me instead of only two since I was out there. I shall never rest till I can get back. How long are you home for?"

"Six months, unless I take an extension."

"Good! You will come and see us? I've such heaps to talk about; and you must stay with us in the country. Your sister has told me how splendidly you have got on—Simla and Calcutta, and no end of importance. The next thing will be 'The Star,' of course."

Just then Sir John hurried in, and the little disturbance that ensued as he went round shaking hands, to be successfully anchored by his wife to Lady Bawe, parted them for the moment. But when, with Dorothy on his arm, Philip found himself descending the staircase, carefully avoiding the train of the lady in front of them, it was of Stella Crayfield that he was thinking. Miss Baker had innocently started the aching, regretful memory. The one star he really desired was not for him, would never be his. Where was Stella at this moment? What had become of her? The letter he had written to her after her husband's death was never answered, and, true to his promise, he had "understood," had accepted and respected her silence with bitter resignation, extracting what solace he could from his work and his rapid advancement, though his success brought him little solid satisfaction.

Now they were all seated at the dinner table, with slices of musky melon before them; and fantastically the notion struck him that Miss Baker was rather like a slice of melon herself—all curves and rich golden hues, delectable but just as unsatisfying.

"What about the book?" he inquired with an interest that was not wholly simulated. "If it has appeared, why didn't you send me a copy?"

Her face fell. "Oh, that was a dreadful blow!" She looked up at him with a pathetic demand for sympathy in her fine eyes. "No one would publish the book unless all expenses were guaranteed by the author, and though, of course, there would have been no difficulty about that——"

"You wanted it to come out on its own merits?"

"Yes, that was how I felt. Pater said it was very stupid of me."

"I think it was very honest of you."

"Do you really? I often wanted to ask you, but it seemed such a confession of failure, and you know you always made me feel a failure when I was with you in India!"

"Did I? I assure you it was quite unintentional."

She laughed a little self-consciously. "Oh, I'm sure it was very good for me, and perhaps it helped me to realise that my object in writing a book at all was not so much to give my experiences and opinions to the public as to impress my friends with my cleverness and superiority. Really you are to blame for the non-appearance of the book."

"What an unkind accusation!"

"Not quite so unkind perhaps as it might appear," she said softly; then, as though to edge away from a too intimate topic, she began to ask questions about his last appointment, about his voyage home. What had he done with Jacob? Had he sold the chestnut pony? And they talked and talked as course succeeded course, until the wine and the wonderfully cooked food, and the girl's unaffected interest in himself and his doings chased the cloud from Philip's spirit, lifted his depression, and he felt, as the women streamed from the dining-room at the conclusion of the meal, that perchance life need not be quite so dreary, so empty, after all.

Someone plumped down in the vacant chair beside him. It was Dorothy's parent, a glass of port in his hand, purpose in his bearing. Philip prepared himself for an argument as to the claims of India to Home Rule. He felt ready to go farther than his own convictions in order to confute the ignorant and arrogant assertions he anticipated from this man, who seemed to him a traitor to his own class, and equally a traitor to the class into which he had shoved himself by means of his tongue and his wealth.

Instead, equally to his annoyance, he found himself being catechised as to his pay and prospects in the Indian service. When would his pension be due? What would it amount to? Did he expect any special recognition for his work during the famine? Philip scowled and answered shortly, said in conclusion that he expected no recognition of his famine services, it was all in the day's work. He endeavoured to change the subject, but his inquisitor, for some reason of his own (if he had any, as Philip queried, beyond vulgar curiosity), was not to be snubbed. "Let me see, what are the Indian decorations? C.I.E.'s one of them?"

Philip interposed flippantly: "Which means A.S.S. very often!" But the pleasantry was lost on Lord Redgate, who either ignored or did not perceive it.

"Now I recollect," he continued. "And C.S.I., the Star of India; but I'm blessed if I know which is the more important."

"The Star, of course," snapped Philip. Why in the world should he be haunted this evening by the word that was so closely associated with all that had gone wrong in his life?

Lord Redgate produced a gold pencil-case and made a note on his shirt cuff. Philip watched him, wondering moodily what he was writing; then Lord Redgate looked up, and the eyes of the two men met.

"You were very good to my girl in India," he said unexpectedly, and the rugged face softened.

Philip flushed, repenting his antagonism, but he could not bring himself to like Lord Redgate any better. "I did nothing," he protested awkwardly.

"She told me how you looked after her. My girl and I understand each other; there are no secrets between us."

"There was very little to tell. I was glad to be of use."

A pause followed, and Philip rose. "If you will excuse me, I want to have a few words with my brother-in-law." And he made his way round the table to where Sir John was sitting silent, not attempting to make conversation. His wife was perhaps right when she declared that John was the worst host in the world; but his wine was excellent if his company was not, and his guests were contented with the former.

Meanwhile in the drawing-room Miss Baker had attached herself to the guileless Lady Flint, who was willingly drawn into confidences respecting her son's boyhood. Here was a nice, unaffected girl; it was no effort to talk to her, especially as she was anxious to talk about Philip, and had seen Philip in India, had seen how he lived and how hard he worked.

"It must be so lovely for you to have him at home again," said this charming young lady.

"Yes, my dear, it is a great comfort and pleasure, but I don't feel quite happy about him. He has changed a good deal."

"Well, it's a long time since you last saw him, isn't it?"

"I don't think he looks well."

"Neither do I, but he will soon be all the better for the change to England."

"He was a delicate child though he grew up quite strong. You see, he was born in India, and I couldn't bring him home till he was nearly seven years old." The old lady prattled on, and Miss Baker listened with such encouraging interest that Lady Flint plunged deep into the subject of Philip's childish ailments, the difficulties over his education, the agonies of parting with him just when she felt he most needed her care.

"We Indian mothers have always that trial to meet—separation from either husband or children, and it never seems to be taken into account by those at home who don't have to face it. Personally we were lucky in finding a nice place for Philip and Grace till they were old enough to go to school, but then the holidays were always on my mind; relations are sometimes so injudicious. Fortunately the children had character, both of them, and as my husband rose in the service I was able to come home more frequently to see them. Dear Philip was such a clever boy!"

"He is a very clever man!" quoth Miss Baker emphatically, "and how well he has got on!"

"He was always ambitious; he mapped out his own career from the very first—got a scholarship for his public school and again at Oxford, and passed very high for the Civil Service. He could have stayed at home, but he preferred to take India, and his father and I were very glad. Life in an office would not have suited him; he was a sportsman at heart as well as a student."

"No wonder you are proud of him——"

Lady Flint dropped her fan; Miss Baker picked it up, deferentially, and as she restored it Lady Flint thought the girl's hair very pretty, though it was a pity, in her opinion, that she wore it cut short. A possibility crept into her mind that was not altogether distasteful: was there likely to be "anything" between Miss Baker and her beloved son? Though Miss Baker had no connection with India beyond her brief visit to the country, she seemed a warm-hearted, sensible child, and certainly she appreciated Philip! Lady Flint was aware that Lord Redgate was a very rich man, which might be a barrier; if not of course it would be nice to feel that Philip and his wife need never be worried over money matters; in the case of Grace's marriage that had been a satisfactory element, who could deny it?—though she would not have had either of her children influenced in the least degree by worldly advantages.

She felt her way gently. "How would you like to live in India?" she inquired, and she saw the girl flush as she answered decidedly: "I should simply love it!"

"Perhaps your father will take you there again for a visit some day?"

"I went alone, you know—that time. And if I ever go again it will not be on a visit; I shall go to stay."

Lady Flint looked a little puzzled. "But what would your father say to that?"

"My father never interferes with anything I want to do."

"Dear me!" said Lady Flint.

The door opened and the men came into the room. Philip made straight for his mother and Miss Baker, who whispered hurriedly: "Lady Flint, may I come and see you?"

"Do, my dear, I am always at home on Sundays. I shall be very pleased to see you. Come next Sunday if you can." And she made a mental note to keep Philip at home next Sunday afternoon. If the two young people were mutually attracted she would help on the courtship to the best of her powers; but she rather wished Miss Baker were not a rich man's daughter, and not an Honourable—it would mean that Philip, like Grace, might be absorbed into a world she did not understand.

"I have been hearing all about you!" exclaimed Dorothy, looking up at Philip as he stood beside them. "How tiresome and naughty you were, and how you wouldn't work, and gave such a lot of trouble after you grew up!"

They all laughed, and Philip glanced affectionately at his mother, a glance that endeared him the more to the long-limbed girl in the green gown....

Then a well-known pianist who was of the party consented to play, and silence was enforced on the audience. Once at the piano the musician continued to give unlimited samples of his own compositions, and Philip, though he thought the fellow made an unconscionable noise, welcomed the respite from conversation. Again he felt depressed, inert, unreasonably impatient with the well-fed, well-dressed throng that had met together merely to eat and drink and to impress each other with their own importance. They were all so self-satisfied in their several ways! He made up his mind that he would get away from London as soon as he could do so without hurting his parents' feelings; go somewhere to fish by himself; he had no use for crowds like this.

"You will come and see us?" repeated Miss Baker when at last farewells became general. "Come and dine quite quietly, just ourselves. When will you come?"

He could hardly plead a press of engagements, yet he was seized with the reluctance to tie himself that so often attacks the newly returned Anglo-Indian; everyone was in such a hurry at home, he wanted to feel free, but evasion was impossible, and a near date was decided upon.

Going home with his father and mother in the hired brougham he said: "I wonder how Grace can stick that kind of life!"

"So do I," agreed the General.

"But her friends are all so clever," protested Lady Flint; she had never before felt so well disposed towards Grace's world; "and most of them do something."

"Nothing that really matters, except the doctor lot," growled Sir Philip, puffing at one of his son-in-law's excellent cigars. "Upon my word, I felt thankful I was a bit deaf when that music master, or whatever he calls himself, began hammering on the piano. And as for that fellow Redgate—all I can say is that if he made himself, as he boasts, he made a mistake."

"Well, dear, his daughter seems a very nice girl. You think she is nice, don't you, Philip?"

Philip answered casually: "Oh, she's all right, as long as she gets her own way."

Lady Flint ventured to announce that Miss Baker was probably coming to tea on Sunday, and Sir Philip said he hoped her father was not coming too. "If he is," he added truculently, "I shall go out."

How tiresome they both were, thought poor Lady Flint; perhaps the dinner had something to do with it, certainly it had been very rich, and far too much of it. The General was sure to have eaten all the things that he knew disagreed with him, and of course Philip was not accustomed to such elaborate feasts.