“It doesn’t always follow,” said Lorna.

“Careful girl, careful,” muttered Fauntley to himself. He lived in perpetual fear of the offence Lorna would give to his many visitors. Lorna spoke her mind too much, and, to make things worse, had a mind to speak.

“So sweet not to take offence,” thought Lady Fauntley.

“I like him,” Lorna reaffirmed.

Mannering chuckled to himself.

“The Liska’s only one of many of yours, Isn’t it?” he asked, playing with a spoon. “I’ve heard rumours that your collection is unrivalled.”

“Only rumours ?” Fauntley chuckled, in rare good-humour. “It’s the truth, Mannering, take it from me. Like to see them ?”

“After dinner, dear,” said Lady Fauntley.

“Of course, of course.”

“Thanks,” said Mannering. His eyes challenged Lorna’s. She was dressed in a black Schiaparelli gown, gathered at the corsage with a single diamond clip, but otherwise she was innocent of jewels. The gleaming white satin of her skin needed none. “You don’t like gems ?” he asked her.

“A Roland for my Oliver,” thought Lorna. Aloud: “Not so much as I’m supposed to,” she admitted.

“But you’re free to choose,” said Mannering.

“Everything’s a darned sight too free-and-easy over here,” broke in Fauntley, whose recent political activities tempted him to mount the platform at the slightest opportunity. “Going to the dogs, that’s what I think, Mannering, and . . .”

“Do try that souffle,” pleaded Lady Fauntley.

Mannering smiled, and the imps of laughter in Lorna’s eyes matched his.

The meal passed as pleasantly as it had begun, and Mannering told himself that Lady Fauntley, passive as she was, had more in her to admire than her husband. But there was not the slightest hint of her in Lorna; the girl seemed of a different class. He was enjoying himself much more than he had expected.

They chatted for a while over the Cockburn 1900.