“Oh.”

“Oh, yes. An aunt of mine, Doña Isabella de Manuelos-Rivera, used to say ours was the only remaining aristocracy.” He inclined towards Lord Pastern and laughed musically. “But, of course, she had not visited a certain charming house in Duke’s Gate, London.”

“What? I wasn’t listening,” said Lord Pastern. “Look here, Bellairs, about to-night — ”

“To-night,” Mr. Bellairs interrupted, smiling from ear to ear, “is in the bag. We’ll rock them, Lord Pastern. Now, don’t you worry about to-night. It’s going to be wonderful. You’ll be there, of course, Miss Wayne?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Carlisle murmured, wishing they were not so zealous in their attentions.

“I’ve got the gun fixed up,” her uncle said eagerly. “Five rounds of blanks, you know. What about those umbrellas, now — ”

“You are fond of music, Miss Wayne? But of course you are. You would be enchanted by the music of my own country.”

“Tangos and rhumbas?” Carlisle ventured. Mr. Rivera inclined towards her. “At night,” he said, “with the scent of magnolias in the air — those wonderful nights of music. You will think it strange, of course, that I should be — ” he shrugged up his shoulders and lowered his voice — “performing in a dance band. Wearing these appalling clothes! Here, in London. It is terrible, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why.”

“I suppose,” Mr. Rivera sighed, “I am what you call a snob. There are times when I find it almost unendurable. But I must not say so.” He glanced at Mr. Bellairs, who was deep in conversation with his host. “A heart of gold,” he whispered. “One of nature’s gentlemen. I should not complain. How serious we have become,” he added gaily. “We meet and in two minutes I confide in you. You are simpática, Miss Wayne. But of course you have been told that before.”

“Never,” said Carlisle firmly and was glad to see Edward Manx come in.

“Evenin’, Ned,” said Lord Pastern, blinking at him. “Glad to see you. Have you met — ”

Carlisle heard Mr. Rivera draw in his breath with a formidable hiss. Manx, having saluted Mr. Bellairs, advanced with a pleasant smile and extended hand. “We haven’t met, Rivera,” he said, “but at least I’m one of your devotees at the Metronome. If anything could teach me how to dance I’m persuaded it would be your piano-accordion.”

“How do you do,” said Mr. Rivera, and turned his back. “As I was saying, Miss Wayne,” he continued, “I believe entirely in first impressions. As soon as we were introduced — ”

Carlisle looked past him at Manx, who had remained perfectly still. At the first opportunity, she walked round Mr. Rivera and joined him. Mr. Rivera moved to the fireplace, before which he stood with an air of detachment, humming under his breath. Lord Pastern instantly button-holed him. Mr. Bellairs joined them with every manifestation of uneasy geniality. “About my number, Carlos,” said Lord Pastern, “I’ve been tellin’ Breezy — ”

“Of all the filthy rude — ” Manx began to mutter. Carlisle linked her arm in his and walked him away. “He’s just plain frightful, Ned. Félicité must be out of her mind,” she whispered hastily.

“If Cousin George thinks I’m going to stand round letting a bloody fancy-dress dago insult me — ”

“For pity’s sake don’t fly into one of your rages. Laugh it off.”

“Heh-heh-heh.”

“That’s better.”

“He’ll probably throw his sherry in my face. Why the devil was I asked, if he was coming. What’s Cousin Cécile thinking of?”

“It’s Uncle George — shut up. Here come the girls.”

Lady Pastern, encased in black, entered with Félicité at her heels. She suffered the introductions with terrifying courtesy. Mr. Bellairs redoubled his geniality. Mr. Rivera had the air of a man who never blossoms but in the presence of the great.

“I am so pleased to have the honour, at last, of being presented,” he said. “From Félicité I have heard so much of her mother. I feel, too, that we may have friends in common. Perhaps, Lady Pastern, you will remember an uncle of mine who had, I think, some post at our embassy in Paris, many years ago. Señor Alonso de Manuelos-Rivera.”

Lady Pastern contemplated him without any change of expression. “I do not remember,” she said.

“After all it was much too long ago,” he rejoined gallantly. Lady Pastern glanced at him with cold astonishment and advanced upon Manx. “Dearest Edward,” she said, offering her cheek, “we see you far too seldom. This is delightful.”

“Thank you, Cousin Cécile. For me, too.”

“I want to consult you— You will forgive us, George. I am determined to have Edward’s opinion on my petit point.”

“Let me alone,” Manx boasted, “with petit point.”

Lady Pastern put her arm through his and led him apart. Carlisle saw Félicité go to Rivera. Evidently she had herself well in hand: her greeting was prettily formal. She turned with an air of comradeship from Rivera to Bellairs and her stepfather. “Will anyone bet me,” she said, “that I can’t guess what you chaps have been talking about?” Mr. Bellairs was immediately very gay. “Now, Miss de Suze, that’s making it just a little tough. I’m afraid you know much too much about us. Isn’t that the case, Lord Pastern?”

“I’m worried about those umbrellas,” said Lord Pastern moodily and Bellairs and Félicité began to talk at once.

Carlisle was trying to make up her mind about Rivera and failing to do so. Was he in love with Félicité? If so was his jealousy of Ned Manx a genuine and therefore an alarming passion? Was he on the other hand a complete adventurer? Could any human being be as patently bogus as Mr. Rivera or was it within the bounds of possibility that the scions of noble Spanish-American families behaved in a manner altogether too faithful to their Hollywood opposites? Was it her fancy or had his olive-coloured cheeks turned paler as he stood and watched Félicité? Was the slight tic under his left eye, that smallest possible muscular twitch, really involuntary or, as everything else about him seemed to be, part of an impersonation along stereotyped lines? And as these speculations chased each other through her mind, Rivera himself came up to her.

“But you are so serious,” he said. “I wonder why. In my country we have a proverb: a woman is serious for one of two reasons — she is about to fall in love or already she loves without success. The alternative being unthinkable, I ask myself — to whom is this lovely lady about to lose her heart?”

Carlisle thought: “I wonder if this is the line of chat that Félicité has fallen for.” She said: “I’m afraid your proverb doesn’t apply out of South America.”

He laughed as if she had uttered some brilliant equivocation and began to protest that he knew better, indeed he did. Carlisle saw Félicité stare blankly at them and, turning quickly, surprised just such another expression on Edward Manx’s face. She began to feel acutely uncomfortable. There was no getting away from Mr. Rivera. His raillery and archness mounted with indecent emphasis. He admired Carlisle’s dress, her modest jewel, her hair. His lightest remark was pronounced with such a killing air that it immediately assumed the character of an impropriety. Her embarrassment at these excesses quickly gave way to irritation when she saw that while Mr. Rivera bent upon her any number of melting glances he also kept a sharp watch upon Félicité. “And I’ll be damned,” thought Carlisle, “if I let him get away with that little game.” She chose her moment and joined her aunt, who had withdrawn Edward Manx to the other end of the room and, while she exhibited her embroidery, muttered anathemas upon her other guests. As Carlisle came up, Edward was in the middle of some kind of uneasy protestation: “ — but, Cousin Cécile, I don’t honestly think I can do much about it. I mean — oh, hullo, Lisle. Enjoyed your Latin-American petting party?”

“Not enormously,” said Carlisle, and bent over her aunt’s embroidery. “It’s lovely, darling,” she said. “How do you do it?”