ping in their rounds of hospitable duties, standing stock-still, silver trays gripped in white-gloved fingers, and staring, breathless, like pointers at bay.
"Something—like great wings, rushing, rushing!" murmured Charlie Thorneycroft, dropping his usual slang like a cloak.
"Like—wings—" echoed Victoria de Rensen with a little sob.
Yet there was nothing formidable or sinister in the raja's progress through the room, by the side of Sir James, who played guide, philosopher, and friend. A charming, childlike smile was on his lips. His great, opaque eyes beamed with honest, kindly pleasure. He bowed here to a lady, shook the hands of barrister and judge and artist, mumbled friendly words in soft, halting English, accepted a cup of tea from a servant who had regained his composure, and dropped into a low Windsor chair, looking at the people with the same melancholy, childlike expression.
Very gradually the huge, voiceless excitement died.
Once more servants pussyfooted through the salon with food and drink; once more the Paris cubist tore the artistic theories of the white-bearded
