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"Will you see Miss Hamon?" asked the man.

"Miss Hamon?—I didn't know there was a Miss Hamon," said Marborne in surprise.

The butler might have explained that the visits of Miss Hamon to London were few and far between, and he could have supplemented the information that, rare as they were, the household of 307 Grosvenor Place would have been delighted if they were even rarer. For Lydia Hamon was that type of young woman (and the type was not exclusively confined to the young) who, having risen to affluence from the borderland of poverty, lived in a state of perpetual fear that their superiority to the rest of the world was not being duly recognised.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Hamon has a sister—she lives in Paris."

Lydia certainly lived in Paris. She had a small apartment on the Bois and a very highly-polished coupé that was driven by a Japanese chauffeur in a rose-red livery. She studied art in a genteel way, knew many old Royalist families and spoke French to her own satisfaction.

Leaving Marborne in the hall, the servant went into the drawing-room, closing the door behind him. It was a little time before he reappeared to beckon the visitor forward.