Lord Arranmore's face, notwithstanding his ready flow of conversation, seemed unusually still and white--the skin drawn across the bones, even the lips pallid.

The sombreness of his costume, the glitter in his eyes, the icy coldness of his lack of coloring, though time after time he set down his wineglass empty, were curiously impressive.

Brooks looked back into her face, his eyes full of question.
"Mephistopheles," she whispered.

"He is absolutely weird to-night.

If he sat and looked at me and we were alone I should shriek." Lord Arranmore lifted a glass of champagne to the level of his head and looked thoughtfully around the table.
"Come," he said, "a toast-to ourselves.