A smile went round the table, and the attache, to close the subject, remarked:
"Oh, I hope the dogs will be disappointed yet. There was a rumor of a match between Blair and the great heiress, Miss Violet Graham; but I can't vouch for the truth of it, seeing I got it from a man whose word I wouldn't hang a dog on—Austin Ambrose."
"Austin Ambrose, a man with a face like a mask, and a trick of looking over your head while he is talking to you?" said the general. "Oh, yes, I remember him. He was always with Lord Leyton."
"And is still," said the attache.
The subject had run itself out, and the conversation took another turn, but all the time it had been dealing with Blair Leyton, Margaret had set, her eyes fixed on the cloth, her hand closed on the piece of bread, and when it had concluded she looked up and round about her, like one awaking from a dream.
The signora signaled to the ladies and rose, when the prince held up his hand.
"Pardon, my mother, but you have forgotten the toast."
"Ah, the toast, yes," she said, and with a placid smile sank down again.
The prince filled the glass of the lady near him with wine, and leaning forward poured some into Margaret's glass.
"It is our custom on the night before our departure, Miss Leslie, to drink this toast—'To our next meeting!'" and as he spoke he rose and raised his glass.