"Mein angel," said Prince Fritz, as Sybil passed. "You shall haf the pearl—so that I clasp it on your neck."
A big, squarely-built man stood at the lighted doorway; Sybil had met him in London—Lord Innistenne. He whistled as he saw her.
"What the—why are you here, Miss Chauntsey?" he said slowly.
"I came to see it all." Sybil's voice brightened. "It was fun, wasn't it? I made mother let me come."
She was panting, her rose crown crooked, one of her chiffon sleeves torn.
"Fun, for grown-ups," he said shortly. "I thought your mother"—he paused—"did not know the Bellews."
"Captain Gore Helmsley got them to ask me. He wanted me to come down to see it all."
Innistenne frowned. "Look here," he said. "Let me motor you up to town to-morrow. Leave this place."
Sybil shook her head, doubtfully. She was not enjoying herself.
There was no solemn meeting at breakfast at the Bellews. People who liked to come down strolled in to a meal which was kept hot until twelve. Others breakfasted outside their bedrooms; pretty women in silken wrappers might send invitations to a friend to join them in the rose-covered partitions outside their windows.