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Maur, while Millicent Porthcawl had actually met him in the Bournemouth hotel! these and many another vivid index pointed the path of knowledge to one so well versed as she in the intricacies of Debrett. The very attributes which she had taken for an impertinent aping of the manners of society had shouted his identity into her deaf ears time and again.
It was inconceivable that his father should have allowed himself to be drawn into a pitiful intrigue by such doubtful agents as Marigny and the Countess of Porthcawl. "I'll write," he vowed, "and in pretty stiff terms, too, but I'm jiggered if I'll wire. The old chap should have shown more confidence in me. Why on earth didn't he announce his visit to Bristol?
The excuse served to cut short her share of the Countess's brilliant conversation, though Mr. Ducrot tried to make himself very agreeable when he heard the name of Vanrenen. Medenham, standing in the hall, suddenly came face to face with Lady Porthcawl, who was endowed with an unerring eye for minute shades of distinction in the evening dress garments of the opposite sex.
Devar saw that more walking was expected of her she elected to sit in the tonneau and admire the west front of the cathedral. "Lady Porthcawl tells me it is a masterpiece," she chirped shrilly, "so I want to take it in at my leisure." Once more, therefore, did Medenham allow himself a half hour of real abandonment.
This is the Bay of Swansea, a very fine one, extending for several miles in a grand curve from Porthcawl headland on the eastern verge around to the Mumbles, where a bold limestone cliff runs far out into the sea and forms a natural breakwater.
Alan is at Porthcawl, and came to see me this morning. The war news could hardly be worse, and yet I am told by men who get sealed information from the Foreign Office that worse is coming. Poor Russia! She wants help more than anyone. Her wounded are quite untended. I go there next month. The King of the Belgians has made me Chevalier de l'Ordre de Léopold. Love to all. Yours ever, S.
"But are you treating me quite fairly? Why should the distorted version of my affairs given by Lady Porthcawl, a woman whom Cynthia Vanrenen could not possibly receive in her house, and by Count Edouard Marigny, a disappointed fortune-hunter, be accepted without cavil, while my own story is not listened to? I leave Dale out of it. I am sure he told you the actual truth "
Maur telegraphed a frantic appeal to Lady Porthcawl for information, but "dear Millicent" took thought, saw that she was already sufficiently committed, and caused her maid to reply that she had left Bournemouth for the weekend. A telegram to the hotel manager produced more definite news.
He had traveled from London at an absurdly early hour in response to the urgent representations of Susan, Lady St. Maur, to whom her intimate friend, Millicent Porthcawl, had written a thrilling account of the goings-on at Bournemouth.
"By gad," he laughed, "that is a long way from Bournemouth. Well, good-bye. Keep me a date in Clarges Street." "Clarges Street is off the map," she said coldly. "It's South Belgravia, verging on Pimlico, nowadays. That is why Porthcawl is in China ... and it explains Ducrot, too."
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