“It is coming—the idea?” she whispered.
“Very vaguely,” he admitted.
“Who is this Colonel Mayson?”
“Our only military aeronaut,” Peter replied.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Aeronaut!” she repeated, doubtfully. “I see nothing in that. Both my own country and Germany are years ahead of poor England in the air. Is it not so?”
Peter smiled and held out his arm.
“See,” he said, “supper has been announced. Afterwards, Andrea Korust will play to us, and I think that Colonel Mayson and his distinguished brother officer from India will talk. We shall see.”
They passed into a room whose existence had suddenly been revealed by the drawing back of some beautiful brocaded curtains. Supper was a delightful meal, charmingly served. Peter, putting everything else out of his head for the moment, thoroughly enjoyed himself, and, remembering his duty as a guest, contributed in no small degree towards the success of the entertainment. He sat between Mademoiselle Celaire and his hostess, both of whom demanded much from him in the way of attention. But he still found time to tell stories which were listened to by every one, and exchanged sallies with the gayest. Only Andrea Korust, from his place at the head of the table, glanced occasionally towards his popular guest with a curious, half-hidden expression of distaste and suspicion.
The more the Baron de Grost shone, the more uneasy he became. The signal to rise from the meal was given almost abruptly. Mademoiselle Korust hung on to Peter’s arm. Her own wishes and her brother’s orders seemed absolutely to coincide. She led him towards a retiring corner of the music room. On the way, however, Peter overheard the introduction which he had expected.