Genevra belonged to their category, but Genevra had shown herself possessed of especial gifts. Genevra had the attention of a noble lord, and Fenella was amused and delighted to see how a cockney girl of only that little education which she had been able to give her, could score in the battle between the sexes.

For Melisande the days in Fenella's house had been pleasant, the evenings somewhat alarming.

Each day they would rise late after one of the maids had brought them cups of chocolate. They would lie in bed talking of the previous night's entertainment with their usual frankness. Afterwards they would read books which Fenella had chosen for them. Sometimes luncheon would be taken with Fenella, who would talk politics and literature or discuss the previous night's gathering. In the afternoon they would take the air in the Park, riding there in Fenella's carriage or walking about on the gravel paths with Polly as their chaperone. There they often met gentlemen who had attended Fenella's social evenings. When they returned they would go to the dress salon and the dress they should wear that night would be selected for them. Then they would retire to their rooms and be helped to dress by two French maids—servants of Fenella's—who were immediately attracted by Melisande, gave her the best of their attention and delighted to talk French with her.

Melisande was recovering from the shocks she had received during those last days in Cornwall. Her natural high spirits had risen to the surface; she was adaptable and, just as she had quickly become the companion of Caroline, she was fast becoming the charming, vivacious and intelligent young woman Fenella intended she should be.

The nuns would have raised their hands in horror. Melisande herself wondered whether she was like a chameleon which took its colour from its background. Here she was, delighting in clothes, laughing with the girls, enjoying recounting her conquests as they did.

For, of course, they would not let her remain silent. They wheedled certain information from her although she had determined that these things should remain her secret. She had never been discreet at any time. Yet she did not tell them that Sir Charles was her father. She felt compelled to respect his desire for secrecy. But she told of Leon and of Fermor; and she felt that these girls, with what seemed to her their vast knowledge of the world, might help her to understand these two men.

"You must have had a lover," they insisted one morning as they lay in bed sipping their chocolate.

"I thought I was going to be married," she told them. "That was only a little while ago."

Genevra put down her cup of chocolate. "And you didn't tell us! What stopped it? Was he a duke or something?"

Lucie said: "Did his people stop it?"

But Clotilde merely waited patiently to hear.

Melisande then told the story of her meeting with Leon, his desire for freedom, the sudden death of little Raoul and the fortune Leon had consequently inherited.

Lucie cried: "A fortune? And you gave that up! You're not very clever, Melisande."

Genevra said: "You should have waited, Melly. You should have heard what he had to say."

Clotilde, her eyes looking—as they invariably did—as though she were brooding on intimacy with one of her lovers, said: "If you had really loved him, you wouldn't have gone away without seeing him. There was someone else, wasn't there?"

Melisande was silent; but they all began to chant: "Was there? Was there?"

"I don't know."

"But you must know," insisted Clotilde. "Though," she added, "it might be that you only know now ."

And then Melisande told them of Fermor, of the wickedness of him and the charm of him, of the proposition he had made while he was betrothed to Caroline, of the Christmas rose he had slipped under her door with the note written on his wedding night.

"He is a rogue," said Lucie. "You were wise to have nothing to do with him."

"Was he really as handsome as you say?" asked Genevra.

Clotilde answered for Melisande. "Not quite. She saw him with the eyes of love. It makes a difference."

"Tell me," said Melisande, "what should I have done?"

"Waited to ask Leon for his explanation, of course," said Lucie.

"Married him and gone to the plantation in—wherever it was," said Genevra.

"You should not have run away from the one you loved," murmured Clotilde.

And after that they began to talk of Fermor and Leon as they talked of their own lovers.

"But it won't be long," promised Genevra, "before you have others to choose from."

The salon in which Fenella entertained her guests was brilliant that night. The girls—as they so often did—were to join the company after dinner. There they would mingle with the guests, wearing the most spectacular dresses of Fenella's designers. Fenella's beautiful girls ranked with the food and wine as one of the attractions of her evenings.

There was nothing to warn Melisande that this evening was to be any different from others. It was true that she was wearing a wonderful dress—the most beautiful and daring she had yet worn. It had been chosen for her on account of its colour which was emerald green; it was of silk-faille with a pointed bodice, and even her small waist had to be more tightly laced than usual that she might fit it; the skirt was composed of masses of very fine black net through which ran a gold pattern, and this net covered the emerald green silk-faille; the bodice was very low-cut and her back, down to her waist, was bare apart from the flimsiest covering of black and gold net. The dress had been cut to accentuate every curve of the feminine form.

Genevra wore a similar dress in blue which matched her eyes. Lucie was demure in grey and Clotilde seductive in red. Daisy, Kate and Mary Jane would come down later if required.

As they went into the salon most of the guests turned to look at them. Fenella watched them from her throne-like chair. She could not make up her mind which dress she preferred—the green or the blue. It was strange that the green seemed simpler than the blue; or was it that each dress took something from the character of its wearer? Genevra was a girl in a thousand, pondered Fenella. It was just possible that she might marry her lord. But was she clever enough for that? It was a pity that Melisande had to be married to a barrister or someone of that stratum. She must select him soon and let him begin his courtship. Melisande must not know that it was arranged. There was a tilt to her chin which suggested that she might refuse to enter into such a relationship. No, the girl was simple and charming; she was a little bruised at the moment, and that would necessitate a careful approach. Genevra could safely look after herself. The slums of London produced hardier plants than did convents.

A young man was coming towards her. She did not recognize him; and she was certain that he had received no invitation from her to attend. Such intruders hardly ever annoyed her (although sometimes she feigned irritation, for boldness was a characteristic which she greatly admired) especially when they were as good-looking as this young man.

He was well over six feet in height. And what arrogance! What haughtiness! Yet there was a twinkle in the blue eyes. It was an impudent face but the arrogance was offset by the humour she saw in it. She warmed at once to the young man.

She held out her hand to him; he took it and put it to his lips. "Your humble servant !" he said.

She raised her strongly marked eyebrows. "I have not the pleasure, sir, I am very much afraid."

"You do not know me? But I know you. Who could be of London and fail to know its priestess of fashion and beauty?"

"Have done!" she said lightly. "And tell me on whose invitation you came here."

He put on an air of mock penitence. "Am I then unmasked so soon?"

"What have you to say for yourself?"

"What can the uninvited guest say except that he so longed for paradise that he determined to dash through any flaming swords that might attempt to keep him out."

"I can see," she said, "that you are a young man who knows how to make out a good case for himself. What is your name?"

"Holland," he said. "Is it too presumptuous for a man to visit his father's friends? My father has been a frequent visitor to your wonderful house."

"Bruce Holland," she said with a smile.

He bowed. "I am his son ... his only surviving son, Fermor Holland, at your service."

Fenella was beginning to enjoy herself. There was nothing she liked better than audacity, and she thought she was understanding why he was here, and longed to know if her surmise was correct. Her eyes went to a charming figure in a green dress.

"Fermor Holland," she repeated slowly. "Now I believe you recently became a husband."

He bowed to acknowledge that this was so.

"Have you brought your wife with you to-night?"

"Alas, she was unable to accompany me."

"Her good manners doubdess prevented her, since she was not invited."

"Doubtless," he agreed.

"Let me see ... she was the daughter of Sir Charles Trevenning... another of my friends, a dear Cornish squire."

"We are flattered that you are so interested in us, Ma'am."

"Ma'am!" she exclaimed. "That is for the Queen."

"You are a Queen," he said. "All-powerful, all-beautiful, Queen Fenella!"

"What a flatterer you are! You are not going to tell me that you came here to see me!"

"But I am."