A man and a woman leaned idly over the balustrade watching the steady stream of guests that mounted the magnificent staircase. The marble of the balustrade was cool beneath the woman's bare arms, for it was summer, and the man, without interrupting his murmur of comment and anecdote, glanced admiringly at her, and thought that, in spite of her forty years, she, with diamonds in her hair and the great ropes of pearls over her shoulders, need not fear comparison with all the beauty of London assembled at that ball. Her beauty and dignity melted pleasantly, for him, into the wealth of the house, the lights, the abundance of flowers, and the distant orchestra. Again the idea that this woman, for the asking, would decorate his own house with her presence, and would ornament his own distinguished name, played flatteringly through his mind. He reflected with gratification that it lay within his power to do her this honour. For, a vain man, he never questioned but that the favour would lie entirely on his side.

He pointed out to her the famous general on the stairs, escorting his daughter; the new American beauty; the young man recently succeeded to fabulous estates; the Indian prince who had turned the heads of half the women in London. Skilful, she paid him the compliment of interest and amusement, letting it be understood that he was himself of far greater interest to her than the personages who served as pegs to his wit. As he paused once, she revived the conversation:—

'There is a man I have never seen before; that tall, dark man. And the handsome woman with him—she must be his wife.'

'Why must she be his wife?' he asked, amused.

'Because I am sure she is the type of woman he would marry, stately and correct; am I not right?'

'You are quite right; she is his wife. He has been and still is a very successful man; an Under-Secretary at thirty-five, and in the Cabinet before he was forty. Many people think that he will be the next Viceroy.'

At that moment the man on the stairs looked up, and his eyes met those of the woman leaning on the balustrade above.

'What a wonderful face!' she exclaimed, startled, to her companion. 'Wonderful—but he looks as though he had learnt all the sorrow of the world.—He looks—what shall I say?—so weary.'

'Then he has no business to,' he answered with a smile. 'He has everything man can wish for: power, wealth, and, as you can see, an admirable wife. As usual, however, your perception is unerring: he's the most cynical fellow I ever came across. He believes in nothing—and is incidentally the only real philanthropist I know. His name is perfectly familiar to you. It is Davenant.'

'Oh,' she said, carried away by her interest, 'is that Julian Davenant? Of course every one has heard of him. Stay,' she added, searching in her memory, 'wasn't there some extraordinary story about him as a young man? some crazy adventure he engaged in? I don't remember exactly....'

The man at her side began to laugh.

'There was indeed,' he replied; 'do you remember an absurd tiny republic named Herakleion, which has since been absorbed by Greece?'

'Herakleion?' she murmured. 'Why, I have been there in a yacht, I believe; a little Greek port; but I didn't know it had ever been an independent republic?'

'Dear me, yes,' he said, 'it was independent for about a hundred years, and Julian Davenant as a young man was concerned in some preposterous revolution in those parts; all his money comes, you know, from his vine-growing estates out there. I am a little vague myself as to what actually happened. He was very young at the time, not much more than a boy.'

'How romantic,' said the woman absently, as she watched Julian Davenant shaking hands with his hostess.

'Very romantic, but we all start by being romantic until we have outgrown it, and any way, don't you think we are going, you and I, rather too much out of our way this evening to look for romance?' said the man, leaning confidentially a little nearer.

* * * * * *

But these two people have nothing to do with the story.