“Mrs. Hilton is a marvellous cook,” said Annabel Scott. She smiled warmly and unconventionally at Hilton as she spoke, and turned back again to Lucius with a laughing “I shall put on pounds if I stay here too long!”

As the butler went back to the serving-table, Moira said in exactly the same voice and manner as before,

“Wilfrid is coming down for the weekend.”

Miss Bray echoed the name in a fitful manner. Lucius said,

“That fellow Gaunt? He was here last week, wasn’t he? I don’t remember being struck with him.”

Moira said, “I don’t suppose you would be. I’ve been dancing with him quite a lot in town. He is a dream.”

Elaine said, “My dear!” and Lucius enquired, “As a dancer?”

“Of course.”

“Does he make it his life work?”

“He paints. He has two pictures in the Masters galleries.”

Bellingdon’s attention was caught.

“I bought a picture there the other day-a very good one.”

Moira said “Oh-” And then, “Who was it by?”

“Not your friend Wilfrid, I’m afraid. A young man of the name of Moray-David Moray.”

The large blue eyes gazed at him without expression. There was no expression in the husky voice as she said,

“Wilfrid hates him.”

Lucius burst out laughing.

“Then that will be nice for them both! Because Moray is coming down for the weekend too. I asked him if he would like to see my pictures, and he said he would.”

Moira just went on gazing.

“Wilfrid’s picture is about a tombstone and an aspidistra. The tombstone is in a sort of blue mist, the aspidistra is in a pink pot, and there are some bones.”

Annabel laughed and said, “Why, darling?”

“I don’t know. He painted it like that. It doesn’t really mean tombstones and aspidistras-it means things going on in your Unconscious.”

“Darling, I should hate to have a pink aspidistra in my Unconscious!”

Moira shook her head.

“It was the pot that was pink.”

It was at this point that Miss Bray came in on a worried note.

“Oh, my dear! Oh, Lucius! Do you really think-a party-just at this moment-is it really suitable?”

Moira’s gaze shifted to her. She said without hurry,

“What do you call a party? Two men for the week-end? Not my idea of one, Ellen.”

An unbecoming magenta flush spread over Miss Bray’s face. To call her Ellen was Moira’s way of punishing her. As a rule she avoided giving occasion for it, but at the moment her feelings of propriety were engaged. In the spirit of the proverb that you might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb she added to her offence.

“I think we should be as quiet as possible- I think it will be expected of us. The house is full enough as it is.” Her glance touched Annabel Scott, fell away, met Lucius Bellingdon’s frown, and withdrew. “Of course”- the words came tumbling out-“the inquest was adjourned, and the funeral is over. I don’t mean that we have to shut ourselves up, or that there is anything wrong about having a friend or two down quietly.”

“Then what do you mean?” said Moira Herne. “Do you know?”

Miss Bray was twisting her long jet chain. She said in a nervous hurry,

“I was really thinking about the Ball. I don’t know whether anything has been decided yet, but of course with all those people coming-”

Moira said, “There is nothing to decide.”

Miss Bray tried a second look at Lucius Bellingdon and found him frowning still. He said with some accentuation of his usually decided manner,

“There can be no question about the Ball. It will take place as arranged. The date is still a month away. No one could possibly expect us to call it off.”

“No-no-of course not. I only thought we ought to know what is going to happen. I wasn’t really suggesting-Naturally, as you say, a month is quite a long time.”

He laughed.

“Did I? I don’t remember. Anyhow there is nothing to worry about.”

Hubert Garratt had taken no part in this interchange. He crumbled the slice of bread beside him and drank from a glass of water. The arrangements might have had nothing to do with him at all, yet the brunt of the work in connection with the Ball would fall to his share. As soon as lunch was over he disappeared.

The rest of the party adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee. Miss Silver found herself next to Mrs. Scott. She was about to remark on the view from the windows, where a smooth green lawn sloped gently to the windings of a stream, the banks all set with daffodils, when Moira Herne walked up to them coffee-cup in hand and said,

“I shall have to get another dress for the Ball. What a bore!”

Annabel laughed.

“Why should getting a new dress be a bore? And why do you have to get one anyway?”

Moira just stood there.

“The other dress was a copy of one Marie Antoinette really wore. I’m not going to wear it without the necklace-why should I! Anyway they say her things are unlucky.”

Annabel Scott looked up at her appraisingly. It was rather as if she were looking at a picture or a statue.

“I don’t know about unlucky, but definitely not in your line.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The appraising look vanished. A wide flashing smile took its place.

“But, darling-with your colouring! Why smother it with powder? Fancy having hair like yours and covering it up with a wig!”

Moira frowned.

“I didn’t think about that. I wanted to wear the necklace. If it’s gone, there doesn’t seem to be much point about the rest of it. Now I don’t know what to wear.”

“Oh, you must be Undine! I didn’t say anything before, because you’d got it all settled.”

“Who was she? I’ve never heard of her.”

Miss Silver was shocked. She was aware that the classic authors of her youth were now mere shadows from the past, but that La Motte Fouqué should have ceased to be even a shadow shook her. It appeared that Mrs. Scott at least knew something of his most famous creation.

“Undine was a water spirit. It’s a German legend. She fell in love with an earthly knight and married him, but in the end he was false to her and she disappeared in a cloud of spray from a fountain. One of the Chopin ballades puts the story into music.”

“You do know a lot, don’t you?” said Moira Herne. And then, “What would she wear?”

Miss Silver considered that Mrs. Scott showed an amiable temper in her reply. Mrs. Herne’s manner had been abrupt to the point of rudeness, but Annabel only laughed and said,

“Undine? Well, it might be rather enchanting, I think. Transparent green draperies like water flowing, and your hair brushed out into a sort of cloud like spray. Lucius, give me a pencil and paper and I’ll show her.”

There were both on an ornamental table in the window. She took them, drew rapidly, and held up the result to Moira. The sketch had caught a likeness, but it was a likeness with a twist on it. It was, in fact, Undine with her unearthly lightness and grace, her hair blown by some wind of glamour, her dress flowing with the lines of flowing water. Moira studied it attentively. In the end she enquired,

“Green chiffon?”

“Green and grey-very pale grey, to get the water effect. You could have crystal drops where the points of the dress come down. No, not diamonds-they mustn’t be too bright.”

She went across to the piano at the far end of the room and began to play the Undine ballade.

“Listen-this will give you the idea.”

She had an exquisite touch. The rocking melody came on the air with real enchantment. When the storm of Kühleborn’s anger broke she gave it only a few wild chords and dropped her hands from the keys.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Moira Herne said in a grudging tone,

“It mightn’t be bad, but no one will have the foggiest idea what it’s meant for.”

As Annabel Scott came back to her seat she was saying to herself, “She hasn’t a spark of imagination. Why did I suggest Undine?”