Irene Kilnorton was in a state of pardonable irritation; just now she often inclined to irritation, but the immediate cause of this fit and its sufficient excuse lay in Babba Flint's behaviour. If only he could have believed it, he always annoyed her; but it was outrageous beyond the common to come on her "At Home" day, and openly scout her most interesting, most exciting, most comforting piece of news. He stuck his glass in his eye, stared through it an instant, and dropped it with an air of contemptuous incredulity.

"She told me herself," said Irene angrily. "I suppose that's pretty good authority."

"The very worst," retorted Babba calmly. "She's just the person who has an interest in spreading the idea. Mind you, I don't say he doesn't exist; I reserve judgment as to that because I'm aware that he used to. But I do say he won't turn up, and I'm willing to take any reasonable bet on the subject. In fact the whole thing is as plain as a pikestaff."

"What whole thing?" She spoke low, she did not want the rest to hear.

Babba spread his hands in a deprecating toleration for his hostess' density.

"She's everywhere with Mead," he said. "Drives to the theatre with him, you know, walks with him, talks about him."

"That doesn't explain anything, even if it's true."

"Doesn't it? When you're being indiscreet, lay emphasis on your husband. That's the standing rule, Lady Kilnorton. You'll see; when she gets tired of Mead, we shall hear no more of Jack Fenning."

Irene looked at him resentfully; he was abominably confident. And after all Ora was a strange being; in spite of their friendship, still outside her comprehension and not reducible to her formulas.

"But she's full of his coming," she expostulated. "She's—well, not exactly glad, I suppose—"

"I should suppose not," smiled Babba.

"But quite excited about it. And Mr. Mead knows he's coming too."

"No doubt Mead says he knows he's coming." Babba had once served his articles to a solicitor, and reminiscences of the rules of evidence and the value of testimony hung about him.

"Well, I believe he'll come," Irene declared with external firmness and an internal faintness.

"He won't, you'll see," returned Babba placidly.

Desiring an end to this vexatious conversation, Irene cast her eyes round her guests who were engaged in drinking tea and making talk to one another. Her glance detached Bowdon from his attendance on Minna Soames and brought him to her side; Babba, however, did not move away.

"The whole thing is very likely a despairing effort of Miss Pinsent's conscience," he said. "How are you, Lord Bowdon?"

"Ah, Babba, you here? Gossipping as usual, I see."

"He says Ora's husband won't come."

"Well, he doesn't know anything about it."

"I'll take six to four," said Babba eagerly.

"I don't think I care to bet about it," said Bowdon.

"Ah, I expect not!" For Babba the only possible reason against making any bet in the world was the fear of losing it.

"Do go and talk to Minna Soames," Irene implored him. "She'll be ready enough to disbelieve anything creditable about poor Ora." Babba smiled knowingly and began to edge away. Bowdon sat down by his fiancÉe. "I do believe it, you know," she said, turning to him. Babba looked back with a derisive smile.

"Why should she say it, if it's not true?" asked Irene, addressing Bowdon and pointedly ignoring Babba.

"Oh, no doubt it's true," said Bowdon. "Why shouldn't it be true?"

Babba had put forward the constant companionship of Ora and Ashley Mead at once as evidence that the report was not true and as the explanation of its being circulated; Irene was inclined to attribute to it only the first of these functions.

"She goes on very oddly, if it is," she murmured. "But then she is odd."

"It's true, depend upon it," said Bowdon.

His solid persistence both comforted and exasperated her. She desired to think the report true, but she did not wish him to accept it merely in the unquestioning loyalty to Ora Pinsent which his tone implied. A thing was not true simply because Ora chose to say it; men lose all their common-sense where a woman is concerned; so say women themselves; so said Irene Kilnorton.

"What impresses me," she went on, "is that Ashley Mead told me."

"I suppose he got his information from her."

"Of course; but he can judge." She paused and added, "It's a very good thing, if it is true."

"Is it?" asked Bowdon. The question was an almost naked dissent.

Irene looked at him severely.

"It seems to me," she observed, "that men ought to pretend to approve of respectability. One doesn't ask them to be respectable."

"The man's a scamp, according to all accounts."

"He's her husband."

"He'll make her miserable, and take her money, and so on."

"No doubt his arrival will be inconvenient in a good many ways," Irene allowed herself to remark with significant emphasis. She had, she declared, no patience with the way men looked at such things; the man was the woman's husband after all. She found growing in her a strong disposition to champion Mr. Fenning's cause through thick and thin. "We don't know his version of the case," she reminded Bowdon after a pause.

"Oh, that's true, of course," he conceded with what she felt was an empty show of fairness. In reality he had prejudged the case and condemned the absent and unheard defendant. That was because he was a man and Ora Pinsent good-looking; a habit regrettable in men generally becomes exasperating, almost insulting, in one's own lover, especially with circumstances of a peculiar nature existing in the past and still very vivid in memory.

One way in which the news affected Bowdon he had allowed Irene to perceive; he was not at his ease as to how Ora would fare, and there was a touch of jealousy in his picture of Mr. Fenning's probable conduct. But he was conscious also of thankfulness that he had escaped from the sort of position in which he might have been placed had he yielded to his impulse, and in which, so far as he saw, Ashley Mead was now involved. His dignity would not have suffered him to enter into any rivalry with Fenning, while to leave the field clear to Fenning would have been a sacrifice hard to make. From this evil fortune the woman by him had rescued him, or enabled him to rescue himself, and he was full of gratitude to her; while she was still resenting the jealousy which he had betrayed with regard to Ora Pinsent, he surprised her by some whispered words of more tenderness than he commonly used and by a look which sent new hope through her. Suddenly she grasped that this event might do what she had not been able to do, might reconcile him to what was, gradually wean him wholly from the thought of what might have been, and in the end render him to her entirely her own in heart and soul. She would be very grateful to Jack Fenning if he accomplished that for her; he would have remade her life.

"You're quite gallant to-day," she whispered with a blush and a glad sparkle in her eyes. "We were very nearly quarrelling just now, weren't we?" she asked with a bright smile.

"We'll never be nearer, my dear," he answered; he had the most intense desire to please her.

"And about this Fenning man! Imagine!" she whispered in scornful amusement.

Bowdon went off to the House and the other guests took their leave. When all had gone Alice Muddock arrived; the two ladies had arranged to dine and spend a quiet hour together before they went to the parties for which they were engaged. When they were left alone Alice, with a sigh, told her friend that Queen's Gate seemed like a refuge.

"We've been so uncomfortable at home the last few days," she explained. "At least I've found it very uncomfortable. You know about Ashley and the business? Well, father's furious with him about it, so's Bob, so's my stepmother, of course. And then—" She paused as though in hesitation.

"Well, and then?" asked Irene Kilnorton.

"Bob's brought home a lot of gossip about him from the club. Has Mr. Flint been here?" Lady Kilnorton nodded tragically. "He told Bob something, and father's furious about that too. So he won't hear Ashley's name mentioned, and takes his revenge by having Bertie Jewett always in the house. And I don't think I much like Bertie Jewett, not every day anyhow."

"I've only just made his acquaintance—through your brother."

"Oh, he's just what he would be; it's not his fault, you know." She began to laugh. "He pays me marked attentions."

"The Industrious Apprentice!" said Irene with a nod. "Ashley's the idle one."

"It's all very absurd and very tiresome." She had risen and walked across the room. From the other end of it she asked abruptly, "What do they say about him and Miss Pinsent?"

"Oh, my dear, what don't they say about everybody?"

"I don't believe it. I like her; and of course I like him."

"And I expect they like one another, so it's all harmonious," said Irene; but she repented the next moment. "I don't believe anything bad. But he's very silly about her. It'll all pass." After a moment, thanks to the new hope in her, she added a courageous generalisation. "Such nonsense never lasts long," she said. Then she looked at Alice, and it struck her suddenly that Alice would have referred to the news about Jack Fenning, had she known it; it seemed odd that everybody should not have heard of a subject so rich in interest.

"You know about Mr. Fenning?" she asked.

"Mr—? Oh, yes! You mean Miss Pinsent's husband? I know she has a husband, of course."

Then she did not know the new development.

"I've got a bit of news for you," said Irene luxuriously. "Guess."

"I won't guess even to please you. I hate guessing."

"Well, Mr. Fenning's coming home. I'll tell you all about it."

Beyond the bare fact there was in reality very little to tell, but the fact was capable of being clothed with so much meaning, of being invested with so many attendant possibilities, of taking on such various colours, that it seemed in itself a budget of news. Alice did justice to its claims; she was undeniably interested; the two found themselves talking it over in a vein which prevented them from pretending to one another that they were not both excited about it. They felt like allies who rejoiced together at the coming of a reinforcement. Irene's satisfaction was open and declared; Alice was more reticent and inclined to thoughtfulness. But even as an abstract existence on the other side of the world Mr. Fenning had comforted her; his virtue as a balm was endlessly multiplied by the prospect of his arrival in concrete form and flesh.

"The men amuse me," said Irene loftily. "They're all pitying Ora; they don't seem to give a thought to poor Mr. Fenning."

"Have you seen Ashley since—since the news came?"

"Yes, but only for a minute. He mentioned it as certain, but quite indifferently. Of course he'd pretend to be indifferent."

"I suppose so," said Alice. "Perhaps he is really."

"How can he be?"

"Perhaps he means to take no notice of Mr. Fenning."

"My dearest Alice!" cried Irene. "You absolutely shock me. Besides it isn't like that at all. Ora's most excited about his coming. I can't make them out, though."

They fell to debating the constant companionship; the drive to the theatre, improved by Babba Flint's tongue into an invariable habit, was a puzzle, fitting very badly with an excited interest in Mr. Fenning's return. From these unprofitable enquiries they agreed to retreat to the solid basis of hope which the reappearance of the husband gave; on that they congratulated one another.

Common danger breeds candour; common good fortune breeds candour; finally, a tÊte-À-tÊte dinner breeds candour. By the time they reached the sweets Irene Kilnorton, in the course of a demonstration that Ashley must and would get over his infatuation, that such nonsense never lasted, and that Mr. Fenning's return would put a summary end to anything of the sort, had confided to her friend that just for a little while Lord Bowdon had shewn signs of an inclination to hover round the same perilous flame. She was able to reveal the secret now, because she was so full of hope that it was all a thing of the past; she found her confidence itself strengthened by a bold assertion of it.

"Frank's got over it pretty quickly, anyhow," she ended with a secure laugh.

Alice was not so expansive, she had not victory to justify her; she said nothing in words, but when Irene accompanied her "It'll all come right, dear, you'll see," with a squeeze of the hand, she blushed and smiled, returned the squeeze, and kissed her friend on the first convenient opportunity. For all practical purposes the confession was complete, and the alliance sealed anew,—with the addition of a third, involuntary, and unconscious member in the person of Mr. Jack Fenning of Bridgeport, Connecticut.

At Alice's party Ashley Mead appeared. Lady Muddock made timid efforts to avoid him and ludicrously timid attempts to snub him. He laughed at both, and insisted on talking to her with great cordiality for ten minutes before he carried Alice off to supper. Her he treated with even more than his usual friendly intimacy; he surprised her by displaying very high spirits. All went well with him, it seemed; he had been paid fine compliments on his work as secretary to the Commission; his acceptance of the post promised to help rather than hinder him at the Bar; he had received a suggestion that he should try his hand at a couple of articles a week for an important journal.

"It's all quite wrong, of course," he said, laughing. "After refusing Buckingham Palace Road, I ought to be reduced to starvation and have to crawl back like the Prodigal Son. But the course of events is terribly unregenerate; it's always missing the moral. The world isn't very moral, left to itself."

Alice loved him in this mood of gaiety; her own serious and sober disposition found relief in it. But she liked it more as a flower of talk than as a living rule of action.

"I'm so glad," she said, with full sincerity. "Of course I knew that your getting on was only a matter of time."

"I really believe," he said, "that I've at last just got the knife between the outside edges of the oyster shell. I hope it's a good oyster inside, though!"

"It's sure to be a good one for you," was her answer. She could not help giving him that sort of answer; if it betrayed her, she must bear the betrayal. She gave him the answer even now, when he was under the ban of heavy disapproval on account of Ora Pinsent. But she wondered to find him so gay, in a state of such contentment with the world, and of such interest in it. Bearing in mind what she now knew, she would not have marvelled to find him in deepest depression or even in a hardly controlled despair. He looked down in her face with a merry laugh and some trifling joke which was only an excuse for it; his eyes dwelt on her face, apparently in a frank enjoyment of what he found there. But what could he, who looked daily on the face of Ora Pinsent, find there? His pleasure was absurd, she told herself, but it won upon her; at least she was not boring him; for the moment anyhow he was not wishing himself somewhere else. Here was a transient triumph over the lady with whom the gossips linked his name; to Alice's modesty it was much to make forgotten in absence one in whose presence she herself must have been at once forgotten.

He began to flirt with her; he had done the same thing before, now and then, by way of a change she supposed, perhaps lest their friendship should sink too far into the brotherly-sisterly state. She desired this state less than he, but his deviations from it brought her pleasure alloyed with pain. Indeed she could not, as she admitted, quite understand flirtation; had it been all pretence she could have judged and would have condemned, but a thing so largely made up of pretence, and yet redeemed from mere pretence by a genuineness of the moment's mood, puzzled her. Fretfully aware of a serious bent in herself, of a temper perilously near to a dull literalness, she always tried to answer in kind when he, or indeed anybody else, offered to engage in the game with her. When it was Ashley she used to abandon herself, so far as her nature allowed her, to the present pleasure, but never got rid of the twofold feeling that he did not mean what he said and that he ought to mean more than he said. That he should flirt with her now was especially strange. She did not do him the injustice of supposing that he was employing her merely in order to throw the critics of his relations with Ora off the scent. She came nearer to the truth in concluding that the flirtation, like the rest of his bearing, was merely an outcome of general good-humour. The puzzle was postponed only one stage; how could he be in good-humour, how did he contrive to rejoice in his life and exult in it? He was in love with Ora Pinsent; such a love was hopeless if not disastrous, disastrous if not hopeless; in any aspect that she could perceive it was irremediably tragic. But Ashley Mead was radiant.

The idea which Irene Kilnorton said absolutely shocked her recurred as a possible explanation; did he mean to take no notice of Mr. Fenning? An alarmed horror filled her; her love and her moral code joined in an urgent protest. Such a thing would mean degradation for him, it might mean ruin or something like it for his career; besides that, it must mean an end of him so far as she was concerned; it would set an impenetrable insurmountable barrier between them. But how did men approach a determination like that? Surely through sorrow, gloom, and despair? Ah, but there was sometimes a mad desperate gaiety that went with and covered such a resolve. She looked at him with a sudden distress that showed itself in her eyes and parted lips. The change in her caught his notice, but she was too engrossed with her fear to feel embarrassment or false shame. He broke off what he was saying to ask, "Why, what's the matter, Alice? Have you seen a ghost drinking champagne?"

"They say you're being very foolish," she answered in a low steady voice, not moving her eyes from his face. "Oh, Ashley, you're not going to—to do anything mad?"

A pause followed; presently he looked at her and said, with seeming surprise,

"Have you been thinking of that all the time?"

"No, only just now."

"Why? I mean, what made you think of it?"

"I've heard things. And you were so—I can't say what I mean! When people are very gay and in great spirits, and so on, don't the Scotch say they're fey, and that something will happen to them?"

"Most nations have said so," he answered lightly; but a slight frown came on his brow, as he added, "So I'm fey, am I?" His laugh was a little bitter.

"I've no right to speak to you."

"Every right." Whatever was in his face, there was neither offence nor resentment. "Only it's not worth your while to bother," he went on.

"You know I think it is," she answered with simple directness.

He looked at her wistfully; for a moment there came to him such a mood as had arrested Bowdon's steps and availed to turn his feet into a new path. But Ashley's temper was not the same. He did not say that because this path was the best it should be his, be the other ever so attractive; he admitted with a sigh that the other was more attractive, nay, was irresistible, and held on his way straight to it.

"You're one of the best people in the world, Alice," he said. And he added, smiling, "Don't believe all you hear. Everybody is behaving very properly."

"That's not the Kensington Palace Gardens' opinion."

"I'm afraid I'm damned for ever in Sir James' eyes. Bertie Jewett reigns in my stead."

"Yes, that's it exactly," she agreed.

He shrugged his shoulders petulantly. "So be it," said he, with contemptuous resignation. "Oh, I don't mean that I think you look at it like that," he added an instant later.

She wanted to speak to him about what Irene Kilnorton had told her; her desire was to hear from his own lips that he did not mean to take no notice of Mr. Fenning. The subject was difficult of approach, embarrassed by conventionalities and forbidden by her consciousness of a personal interest. Before she could find any way of attacking it indirectly, Ashley began to talk again fluently and merrily, and this mood lasted until she parted from him; she had no further chance of getting inside his guard, and went home, wondering still at his high spirits. On the whole she had drawn comfort from the evening. She decided to reject that far-fetched idea which called him fey because he was merry, and to repose on two solid facts: the first being that Ashley did not seem heart-broken, the second that Mr. Fenning was coming back to his wife. Among any people whom she could measure or understand, these two facts would have been of high importance, enough in themselves to determine the issue. But she felt about Ashley something of the same ignorance which paralysed all her efforts to understand Ora Pinsent or to forecast the actions of that gifted but bewildering lady. Certainly she would have been no more in her intellectual depth had she understood that the doings which were setting Babba Flint's tongue and all the other tongues a-wagging were simply a natural outcome and almost an integral part of a great scheme of renunciation.

She could not be blamed. Ashley Mead himself was hardly less at a loss on the occasions when he allowed himself to take thought concerning the matter. But they were few; he could despair of the situation, and this he did often when he was alone; he could accept it, as he came to do when with Ora; he could abandon himself to the gaiety of the moment, as in the mood in which Alice had found him. But he could not think out the course of events. He had now only one clear purpose, to make things as easy as he could to Ora, to obey her commands, to fall in with her idea, to say nothing which would disturb the artificial tranquillity which she seemed to have achieved. The letter had started on its way to Jack Fenning, the renunciation was set on foot. The few days, the week or two, that still remained to them seemed to make little difference. To scandal he had become indifferent, the arrival was to confute it; of pain he had become reckless since it was everywhere and in every course; the opinions of his friends he gathered merely as a source of bitter amusement; the good fortune on which he had allowed himself to descant to Alice Muddock had a very ironical flavour about it, since it chose to come at the time when it could afford him no real gratification, when he was engrossed with another interest, when he had room only for one sorrow and only for one triumph.

At supper at one of his clubs that night he chanced to find Mr. Sidney Hazlewood, who was a member. Ashley sat down beside him at the table, exchanging a careless nod. Mr. Hazlewood ate his supper with steady silent persistence; Ashley made rather poor work of a kidney; he had not really wanted supper, but preferred it to going home to bed.

"You're not conversational," he observed at last to Hazlewood.

"Afraid of interrupting your reverie," Hazlewood explained with a grim smile.

"I shouldn't have sat down by you unless I'd wanted to talk. How's the piece going?"

"First-rate. Thought you'd have known; you're about pretty often."

"Yes, but I generally omit to enquire at the box office," said Ashley with an air of apology.

Mr. Hazlewood pushed back his chair and threw down his napkin. Then he lit a cigar with great care and took several whiffs. At last he spoke.

"Mind you, Mead," said he with a cautious air, "I don't say it's wrong of a man at your time of life to be a fool, and I don't say I haven't been just as great a fool myself, and I don't say that you haven't a better excuse for it than I ever had, and I don't say that half the men in town wouldn't be just as great fools as you if they had the chance."

"I'm glad you're not going to say any of those absurd things," remarked Ashley with gravity.

"But all I say is that you are a fool."

"Is that quite all?" asked Ashley.

Hazlewood's smile broadened a little.

"Not quite," said he. "I left out one word. An epithet."

Ashley surveyed him with a kindly and good-tempered smile.

"Well, old chap, I don't see how you could say anything else," he observed.

It was merely one, no doubt a typical one, of the opinions that had for the present to be disregarded. In due time the renunciation would confound them all. Of this Mr. Hazlewood and his like foresaw nothing; had it been shewn to them in a vision they would not have believed; if, per impossibile, they believed—Ashley's lips set tight and stern as imagination's ears listened to their cackling laughter. From of old virtue in man is by men praised with a sneer.