For Ora Pinsent the clouds were scattered, the heavens were bright again, the sun shone. The dread which had grown so acute was removed, the necessity for losing what had come to be so much to her had passed away. And all this had fallen to her without blame, without calling for abasement or self-reproach. Nay, in the end, on a view of the whole case, she was meritorious. She had summoned her husband back; true, at the last moment she had run away from him and shirked her great scenes; but if he had really come (she told herself now) she would have conquered that momentarily uncontrollable impulse and done her duty. After a few days' quiet in the country she would have gained strength and resolution to carry out her programme of renunciation and reformation. But he had not come and now he would not come; not even a message came. He refused to be reformed; there was no need for anybody to be renounced. She had done the right thing and by marvellous good fortune had escaped all the disagreeable incidents which usually attend on correct conduct. None could blame her; and she herself could rejoice. She had offered her husband his due; yet there was nothing to separate her from Ashley or to break the sweet companionship. At last fate had shewn her a little kindness; the world unbent towards her with a smile, and she, swiftly responsive, held out both her hands to it in welcome for its new benevolence. Trouble was over, the account was closed; she was even as she had been before the hateful letter came from Bridgeport, Connecticut. In very truth now she could hide the letter among the roses and let it lie there forgotten; the realities had fallen into line with the symbols. As for the people who were to have been edified by the reformation and comforted by the renunciation, why, Irene and Alice Muddock had both been so inexplicably harsh and unkind and unsympathetic that Ora did not feel bound to make herself miserable on their account. Irene had got her husband, Alice did not deserve the man whom Ora understood her to want. It happened that she herself was made for Ashley and Ashley for her; you could not alter these things; there they were. She lay back on the sofa with her eyes on the portrait in the silver frame, and declared that she was happier than she had been for years. If only Ashley would come! For she was rather hurt at Ashley's conduct. Here was Thursday morning and he had not been to see her. He had written very pretty notes, pleading pressing engagements, but he had not come. She was a little vexed, but not uneasy; no doubt he had been busy. She would, of course, have excused him altogether had she known that it was only on Wednesday evening that he was free from his burden and back in town, after seeing his passenger safely embarked on the boat which was to carry him and his thousand pounds back to Bridgeport, Connecticut, or somewhere equally far from the town where she was.

Although Ashley did not come, she had a visitor, and although the visitor was Babba Flint, he came not merely in curiosity. His primary business was connected with a play. He had the handling (such was his expression) of a masterpiece; the heroine's part was made for Ora, the piece would do great things here, but, Babba asserted, even greater in America. The author wanted Ora to play in it—authors have these whims—and, if she consented, would offer his work to Mr. Hazlewood; but Hazlewood without Ora would not serve the turn.

"So I ran round to nobble you," said Babba. "You know Sidney wants to go to the States, if he can get plays. Well, mine (he had not actually written it) is a scorcher."

"Should I have to go to America?" asked Ora apprehensively.

"It's absurd you haven't been before." He proceeded to describe Ora's American triumph and the stream of gold which would flow in. "You take a share," he said. "I can offer you a share. Sidney would rather have you on a salary, but take my advice and have a share."

The conversation became financial and Ora grew apparently greedy. As Alice Muddock had noticed, she had the art of seeming quite grasping and calculating. But about going to America she gave no answer. The matter was not urgent; the thing would not become pressing for months. On being cross-questioned Babba admitted that the masterpiece was not yet written; the idea was there and had been confided to Babba; he was thunderstruck with it and advised an immediate payment of two hundred pounds. Then the masterpiece would get itself written; all wheels must be oiled if they are to run.

"And if you take half, you'll make a fortune," said Babba.

Making a fortune for a hundred pounds was the kind of operation which attracted Ora.

"I'll write you a cheque now," she said.

Babba smiled in a superior manner.

"There isn't all that hurry, as long as you're on," he observed. "Won't you give me a kiss for putting you on?"

"If it goes as you say, I'll give you a kiss—a kiss for every thousand I make," said Ora, laughing.

"There won't be any of me left," groaned Babba, with a humorous assumption of apprehension. He paused for a moment, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and added, "But what would Mr. Fenning say?"

Ora sat on her sofa and regarded him. She said nothing; she was trying to look grave, resentful, dignified—just as Alice Muddock would look; she knew so well how vulgar Babba was and how impertinent. Alas that he amused her! Alas that just now anybody could amuse and delight her! Her lips narrowly preserved their severity, but her eyes were smiling. Babba, having taken a survey of her, fell into an appearance of sympathetic dejection.

"Awfully sorry he didn't come!" he murmured; "I say, don't mind me if you want to cry."

"You're really atrocious," said Ora, and began to laugh. "Nobody but you would dare," she went on.

"Oh, I believe in him all right, you know," said Babba, "because I've seen him. But most people don't, you know. I say, Miss Pinsent, it'd have a good effect if you advertised; look bon fide, you know."

"You mustn't talk about it, really you mustn't," said Ora, with twitching lips. It was all wrong (Oh, what would Alice Muddock say?), but she was very much amused. If her tragedy of renunciation would turn to a comedy, she must laugh at the comedy.

"Keep it up," said Babba, with a grave and sincere air of encouragement. "Postpone him, don't give him up. Let him be coming in three months. It keeps us all interested, you know. And if you positively can't do anything else with him, divorce him."

Ora's eyes turned suddenly away.

"Anyhow don't waste him," Babba exhorted her. "I tell you there's money in him."

"Now you must stop," she said with a new note of earnestness. It caught Babba's attention.

"Kick me, if you like," said he. "I didn't know you minded, though."

"I don't think I did, much," said Ora. Then she sat up straight and looked past Babba with an absent air. She had an idea of asking him what he thought of her in his heart. He was shrewd under his absurdities, kind under his vulgarity; he had never made love to her; in passing she wondered why. But after all nobody thought Babba's opinion worth anything.

"Do you remember meeting Miss Muddock here?" she enquired.

"Rather," said Babba. "I know her very well. Now she's a good sort—reminds you of your mother grown young."

"Well, she thought you detestable," said Ora. The praise of Alice was not grateful to her, although she acknowledged the aptness of Babba's phrase.

"Yes, she would," said he cheerfully. "I've got to shoulder that, you know. So have we all, if it comes to that."

"We all! What do you mean?" Ora did not seem amused now.

"Oh, our sort," said Babba. "I'll leave you out, if you particularly wish it."

"Just tell me what you mean."

"Can't, for the life of me," said Babba. "Have a cigarette?" He held out his case; Ora took a cigarette. They both began to smoke. "But we give her fits," he went on in a meditative tone, as of a man who recognised facts, although he disclaimed all power of explaining them. "I tell you what, though—" he resumed; but again he paused.

"Well?" said Ora irritably.

"That's the sort to marry," said Babba, and put his cigarette in his mouth with a final air.

"Ask her, then," said Ora, with an uncomfortable laugh.

"I think I see myself!" smiled Babba. "How should we mix?"

Ora rose from the sofa and walked restlessly to the window. Her satisfaction with the world was shadowed. She decided to tell Babba nothing of what Alice Muddock, nothing of what Irene Kilnorton, had said to her. For, strange as it seemed, Babba would understand, not ridicule, appreciate, not deride, be nearer endorsing than resenting. He would not see narrow, ignorant, uncharitable prejudice; it appeared that he would recognise some natural inevitable difference, having its outcome in disapproval and aloofness. Was there this gulf? Was Babba right in sitting down resignedly on the other side of it? Her thoughts flew off to Ashley Mead. On which side of the gulf was he? And if on the other than that occupied by "our sort," would he cross the gulf? How would he cross it?

"Well, you'll bear the matter of the play in mind," said Babba, rising and flinging away his cigarette.

"Oh, don't bother me about plays now," cried Ora impatiently.

Babba stood hat in hand, regarding her critically. He saw that she was disturbed; he did not perceive why she should be. The change of mood was a vagary to be put up with, not accounted for; there was need of Mr. Hazlewood's philosophy. He fell back on raillery.

"Cheer up," he said. "He'll turn up some day."

"Stop!" said Ora, with a stamp of her foot. "Go away."

"Not unpardoned?" implored Babba tragically. Ora could not help laughing, as she stretched out her hand in burlesque grandeur, and allowed him to kiss it.

"Anyhow, we'll see you through," he assured her as he went out, casting a glance back at the slim still figure in the middle of the room.

Partly because he had not come sooner, more from the shadow left by this conversation, she received Ashley Mead when he arrived in the afternoon with a distance of manner and a petulance which she was not wont to show towards him. She had now neither thanks for his labours in going to meet Mr. Fenning nor apologies for her desertion of him; she gave no voice to the joy for freedom which possessed her. Babba Flint had roused an uneasiness which demanded new and ample evidence of her power, a fresh assurance that she was everything to Ashley, a proof that though she might be all those women said she was, yet she was irresistible, conquering and to conquer. And her triumph should not be won by borrowing weapons or tactics from the enemy. She would win with her own sword, in her own way, as herself; she had rather exaggerate than soften what they blamed in her; still she would achieve her proof and win her battle.

There seemed indeed no battle to fight, for Ashley was very tender and friendly to her; he appeared, however, a little depressed. Pushing her experiment, she began to talk about Irene and Alice, and, as she put it, "that sort of woman."

"But they aren't at all the same sort of woman," he objected, smiling.

"Oh, yes, they are, if you compare them with me," she insisted, pursuing the path which Babba's reflections had shewn her.

"Well, they've certain common points as compared with you, perhaps," he admitted.

"They're good and I'm not."

"You aren't alarmingly bad," said Ashley, looking at her. He was wondering how she had come to marry Fenning.

"Look at my life and theirs!"

"Very different, of course." They had never been joined in bonds of union with Fenning.

She leant forward and began to finger the flowers in her vase.

"It would have been better," she said, "if Jack had come. Then you could have gone back. I know you think you're bound not to go back now."

He took no notice of her last words, and asked no explanation of what "going back" meant.

"I'd sooner see you dead than with your husband," he said quietly.

Forgetting the flowers, she bent forward with clasped hands. "Would you, Ashley?" she whispered. The calm gravity of his speech was sweet incense to her. Speaking like that, he surely meant what he said! "How could you help me to bring him back, then?"

"I hadn't quite realised the sort of man he must be."

"Oh!" This was not just what she wanted to hear. "There's nothing particular the matter with him," she said.

"The things you told me—"

"I daresay I was unjust. I expect I exasperated him terribly. I used rather to like him—really, you know."

"You wouldn't now," said Ashley with a frown. The remark seemed to shew too much knowledge. He added, "I mean, would you?"

"Now? Oh, now—things are different. I should hate it now." She rose and stood opposite to him. "What's the matter?" she asked. "You're not happy to-day. Is anything wrong?"

He could not tell her what was wrong, how this man whom she had so unaccountably brought into her life seemed first to have degraded her and now to degrade him. To tell her that was to disclose all the story. He could throw off neither his disgust with himself nor his discontent with her. She had not asked him to borrow money and bribe Jack Fenning to go away; it was by no will of hers that he had become a party to the sordid little drama which Hazlewood's information enabled him to piece together. All she saw was that he was gloomy and that he did not make love to her. He should have come in a triumph of exultation that their companionship need not be broken. Her fears were ready with an explanation. Was Babba Flint right? Was the companionship unnatural, incapable of lasting, bound to be broken? She looked down on him, anger and entreaty fighting in her eyes.

"I believe you're sorry he didn't come," she said, in a low voice. "Do you want to get rid of me? You've only to say so, if that's what you want."

"I'm not sorry he didn't come," said Ashley, with a smile.

"Now you're amused. What at?"

"Oh, the way things happen! Among all the things I thought you might say to me, I never thought of your telling me that I was sorry he hadn't come." He raised his eyes to hers suddenly. "Do you know anything about what he does out there?" he asked.

"No; he never wrote, except that once. I don't want to know; it doesn't matter to me."

"One letter in five years—isn't it five?—isn't much."

"Oh, why should he write? We separated for ever."

"But then he proposed to come."

"Dear me, don't be logical, Ashley. You see he didn't come. I suppose he had a fit of something and wrote then." She paused, and added with a smile, "Perhaps it occurred to him that I used to be attractive."

"And then he forgot again?"

"I suppose so. Why do you talk about him? He's gone!" She waved her hand as though to scatter the last mist of remembrance of Jack Fenning.

"Perhaps he wanted to get some money out of you," said Ashley.

"You aren't flattering, Ashley."

"Ah, my dear, a man who does what I do may say what I say."

Something in his words or tone appealed to her. She knelt down by his chair and looked up in his face.

"You do all sorts of things for me, don't you?"

"All sorts."

"And you hate a good many of them?"

"Some."

"And your friends hate all of them for your sake! I mean Irene, and Miss Muddock, and so on. Ashley, would you do anything really bad for me?"

"I expect so."

"I don't care; I should like it. And when you'd done it I should like to go and tell Alice Muddock all about it."

"She wouldn't care." His voice sounded sincere, not merely as though it gave utterance to the proper formal disclaimer of an unloved lady's interest in him. Ora did not miss the ring of truth.

"Has she begun not to care?" she asked.

"If you choose to put it in that way, yes," he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. "You see, we go different ways."

The talk seemed all of different ways and different sorts to-day.

"Yes, I know," she answered, drawing a little back from him, but not rising from her knees. Ashley was not looking at her, but, resting his head on his hands, gazed straight in front of him; he was frowning again. "What are they saying about Jack not coming?" she asked suddenly.

"What they would," said Ashley, without turning his head. "You know; I needn't tell you."

"Oh, yes, I know. Well, what does it matter?"

"Not a ha'penny," said Ashley Mead. It was not what they said that troubled him; what they said had nothing to do with what he had done.

"Ashley," she said, with an imperative note in her voice, "I know exactly what I ought to do; I've read it in a lot of books." Her smile broke out for a moment. "Most books are stupid—at least the women in them are. I was stupid before—before Jack didn't come, and I thought I'd do it. Well, I won't. I don't believe you'd be happier. I won't give you up, I won't let you go."

Ashley turned on her with a smile.

"Nothing equals the conceit of women," he said. "They always think they can settle the thing. Whatever you say, I've not the least intention of being given up." It crossed his mind that to allow himself to be given up now would be a remarkable piece of ineptitude, when he had sacrificed a thousand pounds, and one or two other things, in order to free himself and her from the necessity of their renunciation.

"Wouldn't you go if I told you?"

"Not I!"

"Well then, I've half a mind to tell you!" Her tone was gay; Babba Flint's inexplicable convictions and voiceless philosophy were forgotten. The man she loved loved her; what more was there to ask? She began to wonder how she had strayed from this simple and satisfactory point of view; didn't it exhaust the world? It was not hers to take thought for him, but to render herself into his hands. Not ashamed of this weakness, still she failed to discern that in it lay her overwhelming strength. She stretched out her hands and put them in his with her old air of ample self-surrender, of a capitulation that was without condition because the conqueror's generosity was known of all. "What are we worrying about?" she cried with a low merry laugh. "Here are you, Ashley, and here am I!" And now she recollected no more that this kind of conduct was exactly what seemed horrible to Alice Muddock and wantonly wicked to Irene Kilnorton. In this mood her fascination was strongest; she had the power of making others forget what she forgot. Ashley Mead sat silent, looking at her, well content if he might have rested thus for an indefinite time, with no need of calculating, of deciding, or of acting. As for her, so for him now, it was enough. With a light laugh she drew her hands away and sprang to her feet. "I wish I hadn't got to go to the theatre," she exclaimed. "We'd dine somewhere together. Oh, of course you're engaged, but of course you'd break it. You'd just wire, 'Going to dine with Ora Pinsent,' and they'd all understand. They couldn't expect you to refuse that for any engagement; you see, they know you're rather fond of me. Besides they'd all do just the same themselves, if they had the chance." So she gave rein to her vanity and her triumph; they could not but please him since they were her pÆan over his love for her.

Till the last possible moment he stayed with her, driving with her to the theatre again as in the days when the near prospect of the renunciation made indiscretion provisional and unimportant. He would not see her act; it was being alone with her, having her to himself, which was so sweet that he could hardly bring himself to surrender it. To see her as one of a crowd had not the virtue that being alone with her had; it brought back, instead of banishing, what she had made him forget—the view of the world, what she was to others, and what she was to himself so soon as the charm of her presence was removed. He left her at the door of the theatre and went off to keep his dinner engagement. With her went the shield that protected him from reflexion and saved him from summing up the facts of the situation.

Morality has curious and unexpected ways of justifying itself, even that somewhat specialised form of morality which may be called the code of worldly honour. This was Ashley Mead's first reflexion. A very stern character is generally imputed to morality; people hardly do justice nowadays to its sense of humour; they understood that better in the old days. "The Lord shall have them in derision." Morality is fond of its laugh. Here was his second thought, which came while a vivacious young lady gave him her opinion of the last popular philosophical treatise. To take advantage of Mr. Hazlewood's carelessly dropped information, to follow up the clue of the good-for-nothing Foster and the masterful Daisy Macpherson, to set spies afoot, to trace the local habitation of the "little spec," and to find out who formed the establishment that carried it on—all this would be no doubt possible, and seemed in itself sordid enough, with its sequel of a divorce suit, and the notoriety of the proceedings which Miss Pinsent's fame would ensure. Yet all this might possibly have been endured with set teeth and ultimately lived down, if only it had chanced that Mr. Hazlewood had been to hand with his very significant reminiscences before Lord Bowdon and Ashley Mead had made up their minds that Jack Fenning must be got out of the way, and that a thousand pounds should buy his departure and bribe him not to obtrude his society upon the lady who was his wife. That Mr. Hazlewood came after the arrangement was made and after the bargain struck was the satiric touch by which morality lightened its grave task of business-like retribution. What, if any, might be the legal effect of such a transaction in the eyes of the tribunal to which Miss Pinsent must be persuaded to appeal, Ashley did not pretend to know and could not bring himself seriously to care. The impression which it would create on the world when fully set forth (and he knew Jack Fenning too well to suppose that it would not be declared if it suited that gentleman's interest) was only too plain. The world perhaps might not understand Bowdon's part in the affair; probably it would content itself with surmises about something lying in the past and with accompanying sympathetic references to poor Irene Kilnorton; but its judgment of himself, of Jack Fenning, and of Ora Pinsent was not doubtful. Would the world believe that Ora knew nothing about the manner of Jack's coming and the manner of Jack's going? The world was not born yesterday! And about Ashley Mead the world would, after a perfunctory pretence of seeking a charitable explanation, confess itself really unable to come to any other than one conclusion. The world would say that the whole thing was very deplorable but would not attempt to discriminate between the parties. "Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other." That would be the world's verdict, and, having arrived at it, it would await the infinitely less important judgment of the Court with a quiet determination not to be shaken in its view of the case.

To pursue a path that ended thus was to incur penalties more degrading and necessities more repugnant than could lie in an open defiance of this same world with its sounding censures and malicious smiles. To defy was in a way respectable; this would be to grovel, and to grovel with no better chance than that of receiving at last a most contemptuous pardon. "Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other." He would be paired off with Jack Fenning, Ora coupled with the masterful Daisy Macpherson. Let them fight it out among themselves—while decent people stood aloof with their noses in the air, their ears open, and their lips as grave as might be. Such was the offer of peace which morality, certainly not serious beyond suspicion, made to Ashley Mead; if he would submit to this, his offence touching that matter of the thousand pounds and the burking of Mr. Fenning's visit should be forgotten. Better war to the death, thought Ashley Mead.

But what would Bowdon say? And what would be the cry that echoed in the depths of Ora's eyes?

He asked the question as he looked at her picture. Suddenly with an oath he turned away; there had come into his mind the recollection of Jack Fenning's ardent study of Miss Macpherson's face.

Mutato nomine de te:—and does the name make such a difference?