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On my left lay my cousin Jill, Duchess of Padua. She had slipped from her chair, which had plainly abetted her movement and let her weight move it back. With one slim leg drawn up, she was lying flat on her back, exactly as though she had lately come out of the surf and were taking her ease on the sand in a bathing-dress. Her golden hair had fallen back from her brow, and, though she was now a mother, she looked like a child of fourteen.

Beside her, her husband, Piers, was hanging out of his chair and over his wife. His right arm was dangling free, for the arm of his chair had caught him beneath the arm-pit and held him up. His body was slack and crumpled, his head was down, and he made me think of a candle for which the heat of summer has been too much.

Beyond him, looking stouter than ever, Casca de Palk was still sitting square in his seat: but his head was down on the table--to be exact, in the dish which was resting upon his plate. The foie gras the former contained had melted before the touch of his countenance and was rising like a brown tide about his nostrils and bubbling gently before the breath of his lips.