In the restaurant beneath them, the tables had been filling up as they talked, and already the early diners were beginning to dance on the oval floor in the centre of the room. It was one of these that Lord Henry indicated—a tall fair girl in a white dress, with a mass of short-cut chestnut hair. She was pretty with a more than merely conventional prettiness, in part, perhaps, because she was so obviously radiantly happy. With sparkling eyes and lips parted in ecstasy, she danced as if she wished she need never stop.

Lord Henry twisted round in his chair to get a better view. He stared for some time before he spoke. Then he said: “Jenkinson!”

“Eh?” said his brother.

“Jenkinson. That’s the name. Couldn’t get my tongue to it at first. Her father lives near here. Retired soldier—general or something. With me at Harrow.”

“Well, Miss Jenkinson seems pretty pleased with life this evening,” Lord Bernard remarked.

“Umph! You mean, pleased with the young feller she’s with,” grunted Lord Henry.

Mallett had taken no part in this conversation. Beyond casually glancing at Miss Jenkinson and noting the fact that she was pretty, he paid no attention to her. He was considerably more interested in “the young feller” dancing with her.

“Who is he, d’you know?” said Lord Bernard’s voice in his ear.

“Haven’t an earthly.” Lord Henry turned back to his liqueur.

But Mallett, his attention now thoroughly aroused, continued to watch. For here, within a few yards of him, dancing contentedly in one of the most expensive hotels in England, was young Harper—Harper the superior estate agent’s clerk, whose father had lost all his money five years ago, who had thrown up his job that morning without apparent cause, who. . . .