“We are all the slaves of man, my dear Lady Bracondale. You are kept in town because Parliament insists on keeping your husband; and I am kept in town because—oh, because the most capricious young man in London happens to be my son!”

An afternoon call in the first week of August is distinctly an anomaly, and seems to partake somewhat of the nature of a visit of condolence. Parliament was sitting late this year, and those hapless wives who considered it their duty to wait in town until their legislating husbands were released, visited one another, and were visited by the one or two acquaintances detained in London by other causes, in a manner which betrayed a combination of martyrdom and shamefacedness.

Lady Bracondale, who was nothing if not a personification of duty done, or in the act of doing, was being condoled with, or called upon, on this particular August afternoon, by two distinct sets of sympathising acquaintances; two sets, which, in spite of placid words and pretty speeches, seemed to be entirely incapable of amalgamation; Mrs. Romayne, and Mrs. Pomeroy and her daughter, who had arrived a few minutes later. And it was to Mrs. Pomeroy that Lady Bracondale—who had a peculiar gift for saying in a stately and condescending manner the things which quicker perceptions would have recognised as not being precisely the best things to be said under the circumstances—turned, as Mrs. Romayne stopped speaking.

“I suppose Mrs. Romayne looks upon you as the exception that proves her rule,” she said. “For it is not a case of manly compulsion with you, I believe? I hope your sister goes on well?”

Mrs. Pomeroy, having neither husband nor son, was detained in town by the presence in her house of the sister whom she had visited earlier in the year, and who had spent the last month under the care of a London doctor. But her tone was as placid as ever as she replied:

“Thank you, I believe they consider her nearly recovered, for the time being. She hopes to go home this week. And then Maud and I will go and pay some country visits. We don’t think of going abroad this year. I shouldn’t feel easy to be out of England while my sister remains in this state.”

“But that’s not compulsion at all!” exclaimed Mrs. Romayne gaily. “You are acting entirely on your own impulse. Now, just consider my hard case. We were going to Pontresina; you know I’m very fond of Pontresina; it’s such a dear, bright, amusing place. And we were to have started yesterday. Now, imagine my feelings when, two nights ago, that boy of mine came home, and said that, on the whole, he thought he’d rather not go abroad this year; he’s taken with an enthusiasm for his profession, if you please, and he must needs stay somewhere quiet—so he says—and work at it. I must do him the justice to say that he was awfully apologetic, dear fellow!” Mrs. Romayne laughed her little affected, maternal laugh. “He was very anxious that I should go without him, and even offered to give up his own plan when he found how preposterous I thought that part of his idea.”

There was not the faintest difference in Mrs. Romayne’s voice by which it would have been possible to tell that her last statement was even less veracious than any other part of her speech, and that Julian’s proposal to give up his plan was a figment of the moment only.

“And then of course I gave in,” she continued. “Of course, he knew I should—the wretch! And we’re to have a cottage on the river, and spend six weeks there.”

She finished with a little grimace, and Lady Bracondale observed politely:

“I’m afraid you will find it rather dull.”

“I shall find it very dull,” returned Mrs. Romayne with ingenuous frankness. “I shall be bored to death. But, then, you all know that I am really a very ridiculous woman, and if my lord and master is content, there is nothing more to be said. He’s kind enough to assure me that there are lots of nice people about! I don’t know what kind of nice people one is likely to find about the river in August and September, but I take his word for it.”

“I believe the Comptons have a house-boat somewhere,” observed Miss Pomeroy.

It was her first contribution to the conversation, and it was made apparently rather because conventionality by this time demanded a remark of some sort from her, than from any interest in the subject. Before any reply could be made, the door opened, and Marston Loring was announced.

Mrs. Romayne had been looking rather sharp-featured, and there was a great restlessness in her eyes. It seemed to leap up and then settle suddenly into comparative repose as they rested on Marston Loring, and as he turned to shake hands with her she greeted him gaily. It was their first meeting since the night of the Academy soirÉe, but Loring’s manner was absolutely unmoved. His greeting to her differed in nowise from his greeting to the other two ladies, and if that fact in itself involved a subtle change in his demeanour towards her, the change was observed by one pair of eyes only—a pair of demure brown eyes. Miss Pomeroy had been a good deal interested in Marston Loring’s comings and goings during the fortnight she spent in Queen Anne Street.

“I thought you were gone,” Mrs. Romayne said lightly. “What are you doing in town to-day, may one ask, when you were booked to start for Norway yesterday?”

“Business,” he returned in a tone which addressed the whole company rather than any member of it individually. “I am investing in a Scotch moor, and I can’t leave London till I have signed and sealed.”

There was a delicate implication of wealth about the statement which seemed to give a curious fillip to the conversation; and an animated discussion ensued on Scotland, its charms and its disadvantages.

Mrs. Romayne held her part in the discussion with unfailing readiness, and as the subject exhausted itself she rose to take leave. She said good-bye in her usual charming manner to her hostess, and to Mrs. Pomeroy and her daughter, and then she turned to Loring.

“By-the-bye,” she said carelessly, “I’ve a piece of property of yours in the carriage. Did you know you had lost something when you called the other day? No, I shan’t tell you what it is, you very careless person! But I’ll give it you if you like to come down for it.”

She turned away; Loring followed her perforce; and there was an ugly smile on his face as he did so. At the foot of the stairs she paused; then with a quick glance towards an open door which led into a dining room, she went rapidly towards it, signing to him to follow her. Once within the room, she turned and faced him. She was smiling still, but the smile was stiff and mechanical, and her eyes, as she fixed them on his face, were desperately anxious. There was a curious ring of conscious helplessness and reliance on the man to whom she spoke, about her voice as she began to speak.

“I wanted to speak to you,” she said. “I’m so glad to see you. I’m rather perplexed. Julian has taken it into his head to stop in town, or, rather, close to town. He won’t go abroad; he won’t visit. Can you tell me the reason? Will you try and find out the reason? May I rely on you? But of course I know I may.”

There was a tone almost of relief in her voice, as if in the mere making of the confidence, in the sense of companionship and support it gave her, she found some sort of ease.

And Loring smiled again as he met her eyes.

“I’m sorry to have to dispel an illusion which is so flattering to me,” he said, with the slightest possible accentuation of his usual quiet cynicism of manner. “But it’s useless to assume that I can be of any further service to you.”

He stopped, watching with keen, relentless eyes the effect of his words. A startled look came to the face turned towards him. The eyebrows were lifted and contracted with a quick movement of perplexity. Evidently she believed that she had not fully understood him, for she did not speak, and he went on:

“Your son and I have quarrelled. He has insulted me grossly. For the future we are strangers to one another. Consequently you will see that I shall be no longer able to keep him out of mischief.”

There was an indescribable tone in his voice, ominous and vindictive. And as he spoke, Mrs. Romayne’s face seemed to grow old, and her eyes dilated.

“It can be put right,” she said, in a quick, uncertain voice. “He will apologise. You will forgive——”

Loring interrupted her, very coldly and incisively.

“He will not apologise!” he said. “And I should not accept any apology. I needn’t suggest, of course, that, under the circumstances, our acquaintance, much as I regret this, had perhaps better cease.”

They faced each other for another moment, and into Mrs. Romayne’s eyes there crept a sick despair strangely incongruous with the surface appearance of the position. Then she seemed to recover herself as if with a tremendous effort of will. She drew herself up, bowed her head with grave dignity, and moved to leave the room. He held the door open for her with an absolutely expressionless countenance. She passed down the hall to where the servant was waiting at the door, went out, and got into her carriage alone.

Loring stood at the foot of the stairs watching her, and then turned with a cruel contentment in his eyes, and went upstairs again to the drawing-room.

The two elder ladies were sitting with their heads very close together, as he opened the drawing-room door, evidently deep in some question of domestic importance. And standing by a conservatory window at the other end of the room, a rather bored-looking figure in its solitary girlishness, was Maud Pomeroy. The occasion being, as has been said, something of an anomaly, conventions were not so strict as usual. Lady Bracondale just glanced up with a vague smile as Loring reappeared, and then became absorbed in conversation as he strolled across to Maud Pomeroy. She looked up at him with a faint smile.

“Has Mrs. Romayne gone?” she said.

He signified a careless assent, and then said:

“You are looking rather bored, do you know, Miss Pomeroy? Suppose we go and look at the flowers until we’re wanted?”

She hesitated a moment, and then moved idly into the conservatory, looking back at Loring with a smile as he followed her.

“I was a little bored,” she confessed. “It is very kind of you to come and amuse me.”

For the next moment or two Loring could hardly be said to prove himself very amusing. He sauntered round the little conservatory at his companion’s side, his eyes fixed keenly upon her impassive profile with something very calculating in their depths. Miss Pomeroy also was apparently absorbed in thought, and did not notice his silence.

“You are a great friend of the Romaynes, are you not?” she said at last, in her thin, even, very “proper” tones.

Loring glanced at her again.

“Well,” he said, “that’s not a question that it’s particularly easy for me to answer, to-day. I have been on fairly intimate terms with them, as you know. But do you know what that kind of thing sometimes leads to?”

Miss Pomeroy shook her head.

“Well, there is such a thing as knowing people too well,” said Loring deliberately. “And then you find out little traits that don’t do. To tell you the truth, Romayne and I have quarrelled.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Miss Pomeroy softly.

He looked at her quickly, but he was not quick enough to catch the spiteful gleam in her eyes.

“Would it be inquisitive to enquire why?” he said.

“I don’t think Mr. Romayne is a nice young man,” was the answer. “I would rather people I like——” She broke off in pretty confusion. “I would rather you weren’t a friend of his, Mr. Loring. I think there’s a great deal about him that nobody knows.”

“Indeed!” said Loring, interrogatively and quietly.

“You see,” she said, with charming seriousness, “I think a girl can often feel whether a man is nice or nasty quicker than another man can. Mr. Loring, has Mr. Romayne ever said anything to you—Oh, please don’t think it’s very odd of me to say such things to you! Has he ever said anything that made you think he might be married?”

There was a hardly perceptible pause—a hardly perceptible flash of comprehension on Loring’s face, and the vindictive satisfaction in his eyes deepened.

“What makes you ask me that?” he said, in a tone which seemed to fence gravely with the suggestion rather than to repudiate it.

Miss Pomeroy responded with growing conviction.

“Because I’m quite sure that he is married. And, of course, as he doesn’t own it, there must be something—something not nice about it. And it does seem to me so wrong that people should like him so much when he isn’t a bit what they think he is.”

The man’s eyes and the girl’s eyes met at that moment for the first time. The girl’s were perfectly clear, mild, and expressionless, and into the man’s there stole a cynical tinge of admiration.

“By Jove,” he said to himself, “she is clever!”

At that instant Mrs. Pomeroy’s voice was heard from the drawing-room calling placidly for her daughter. And Miss Pomeroy moved forward with graceful promptitude into the drawing-room.

“We shall meet in Scotland by-and-by, I believe,” said Loring pleasantly, as he shook hands with Miss Pomeroy. “You were to be at the Stewarts’, I believe, in the last week of September, and so am I. I shall look forward to it. Good-bye, Miss Pomeroy.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Loring.”

A few minutes later Loring also took leave of Lady Bracondale and went away. The satisfaction was stronger than ever in his eyes. Maud Pomeroy’s words had somehow or other carried instantaneous conviction to his mind, and in the fact he believed them to contain he saw certain social ruin for Julian Romayne.

“He’s done for himself all round,” he said to himself as he let himself into his rooms half an hour later. “That nice little house in Chelsea will be to let next season.”

At that same moment, in the manager’s room at the offices of the Welcome Diamond Mining Company, Julian Romayne was standing by the table, looking down at Ramsay as the latter sat leaning back in his chair, indifferent enough in attitude, but with a hard intensity of expression in his dull eyes. Julian had evidently just risen, pushing back his chair, the back of which he was gripping almost convulsively. His face was ashen, his eyes were dilated with an expression of desperate, intolerable temptation.

“I’ll do it,” he was saying in a harsh, unnatural voice. “I’ll do it, Ramsay. Shake hands on it.”