On mature reflection, Gerald Neston declined to be angry. At first, when he had heard George’s tale, he had been moved to wrath, and had said bitter things about reckless talking, and even about malicious backbiting. But really, when you came to look at it, the thing was too absurd—not worth a moment’s consideration—except that it had, of course, annoyed Neaera, and must, of course, leave some unpleasantness behind it. Poor old George! he had hunted up a mare’s nest this time, and no mistake. No doubt he couldn’t marry a thief; but who in his sober senses would attach any importance to this tale? George had done what he was pleased to think his duty. Let it rest. When he saw his folly, Neaera would forgive him, like the sweet girl she was. In fact, Gerald pooh-poohed the whole thing, and not the less because he had, not unnaturally, expected an accusation of quite another character, more unforgivable because not so outrageously improbable and wild.

Lord Tottlebury could not consent to treat what he described as “the incident” in quite so cavalier a fashion. He did not spare his hearers the well-worn precedent of Caesar’s wife; and although, after an interview with Neaera, he was convinced of her innocence, it was in his opinion highly desirable that George should disabuse his own mind of this strange notion by some investigation.

“The marriage, in any case, will not take place for three months. Go and convince yourself of your mistake, and then, my dear George, we will make your peace with the lady. I need not caution you to let the matter go no further.”

To be treated as a well-intentioned but misguided person is the most exasperating thing in the world, and George had hard work to keep his temper under the treatment. But he recognised that he might well have fared worse, and, in truth, he asked no more than a suspension of the marriage pending inquiry—a concession that he understood Lord Tottlebury was prepared to make, though proof must, of course, be forthcoming in reasonable time.

“I feel bound to look into it,” he said. “As I have begun it, I will spare no pains. Nobody wishes more heartily than myself that I may have made an ass of myself.” And he really did come as near to this laudable state of mind as it is in human nature to come.

Before the conference broke up, Lord Tottlebury suggested that there was one thing George could do at once—he could name the date of the trial at Peckton. George kept no diary, but he knew that the fateful expedition had been among his earliest professional journeys after his call to the Bar. Only very junior men went to Peckton, and, according to his recollection, the occurrence took place in the April following his call.

“April, eight years ago, was the time,” he said. “I don’t pledge myself to a day.”

“You pledge yourself to the month?” asked his uncle.

“Yes, to the month, and I dare say I shall be able to find the day.”

“And when will you go to Peckton?”

“Saturday. I can’t possibly before.”

The interview took place on the Tuesday evening, and on Wednesday Gerald went to lay the state of affairs before Neaera.

Neaera was petulant, scornful, almost flippant. More than all this, she was mysterious.

“Mr. George Neston has his reasons,” she said. “He will not withdraw his accusation. I know he will not.”

“My dearest, George is a first-rate fellow, as honourable as the day. If he finds—rather, when he finds——”

All Neaera said was, “Honourable!” But she put a great deal into that one word. “You dear, simple fellow!” she went on, “you have no suspicions of anybody. But let him take care how he persists.”

More than this could not be got out of her, but she spoke freely about her own supposed misdoings, pouring a flood of ridicule and bitterness on George’s unhappy head.

“A fool you call him!” she exclaimed, in reply to Gerald’s half-hearted defence. “I don’t know if he’s a fool, but I hope he is no worse.”

“Who’s getting it so precious warm, Mrs. Witt?” inquired Tommy Myles’s cheerful voice. “The door was ajar, and your words forced themselves—you know.”

“How do you do, Mr. Myles?”

“As you’d invited me, and your servant wasn’t about, the porter-fellow told me to walk up.”

“I’m very glad you did. There’s nothing you can’t hear.”

“Oh, I say, Neaera!” Gerald hastily exclaimed.

“Why shouldn’t he hear?” demanded Neaera, turning on him in superb indignation. “Are you afraid that he’ll believe it?”

“No; but we all thought——”

“I meant Mr. George Neston,” said Neaera.

“George!” exclaimed Tommy.

“And I’ll tell you why.” And, in spite of Gerald’s protest, she poured her tale of wrong into Tommy’s sympathetic and wide-opened ears.

“There! Don’t tell any one else. Lord Tottlebury says we mustn’t. I don’t mind, for myself, who knows it.”

Tommy was overwhelmed. His mind refused to act. “He’s a lunatic!” he declared. “I don’t believe it’s safe to live with him. He’ll cut my throat, or something.”

“Oh no; his lunacy is under control—a well-trained, obedient lunacy,” said Neaera, relapsing into mystery.

“We all hope,” said Gerald, “he’ll soon find out his mistake, and nothing need come of it. Keep your mouth shut, my boy.”

“All right. I’m silent as the cold tomb. But I’m da——”

“Have some more tea?” said Neaera, smiling very graciously. Should she not reward so warm a champion?

When the two young men took their leave and walked away together, Tommy vied even with Gerald in the loudness of his indignation.

“A lie! Of course it is, though I don’t mean that old George don’t believe it—the old ass! Why, the mere fact of her insisting on telling me about it is enough. She wouldn’t do that if it’s true.”

“Of course not,” assented Gerald.

“She’d be all for hushing it up.”

Gerald agreed again.

“It’s purely for George’s sake we are so keen to keep it quiet,” he added. “Though, of course, Neaera even wouldn’t want it all over the town.”

“I suppose I’d better tell George I know?”

“Oh yes. You’ll be bound to show it in your manner.”

George showed no astonishment at hearing that Neaera had made a confidant of Tommy Myles. It was quite consistent with the part she was playing, as he conceived it. Nor did he resent Tommy’s outspoken rebukes.

“Don’t mix yourself up in unpleasant things when you aren’t obliged, my son,” was all he said in reply to these tirades. “Dine at home?”

“No,” snorted Tommy, in high dudgeon.

“You won’t break bread with the likes of me?”

“I’m going to the play, and to supper afterwards.”

“With whom?”

“Eunice Beauchamp.”

“Dear me, what a pretty name!” said George. “Short for ‘Betsy Jones,’ I suppose?”

“Go to the devil,” said Tommy. “You ain’t going to accuse her of prigging, are you?”

“She kidnaps little boys,” said George, who felt himself entitled to some revenge, “and keeps them till they’re nearly grown up.”

“I don’t believe you ever saw her in your life.”

“Oh yes, I did—first piece I ever went to, twenty years ago.”

And so, what with Eunice Beauchamp, alias Betsy Jones, and Neaera Witt, alias—what?—two friends parted for that evening with some want of cordiality.

“She plays a bold game,” thought George, as he ate his solitary chop; “but too bold. You overdo it, Mrs. Witt. An innocent girl would not tell that sort of thing to a stranger, however false it was.”

Which reflection only showed that things strike different minds differently.

George needed comfort. The Serpent-in-Eden feeling was strong upon him. He wanted somebody who would not only recognise his integrity but also admire his discretion. He had a card for Mrs. Pocklington’s at-home, and Isabel was to be there. He would go and have a talk with her; perhaps he would tell her all about it, for surely Neaera’s confidence to Tommy Myles absolved him from the strict letter of his pledge of secrecy. Isabel was a sensible girl; she would understand his position, and not look on him as a cross between an idiot and a burglar because he had done what was obviously right. So George went to Mrs. Pocklington’s with all the rest of the world; for everybody went there. Mrs. Pocklington—Eleanor Fitzderham, who married Pocklington, the great shipowner, member for Dockborough—had done more to unite the classes and the masses than hundreds of philanthropic societies, and, it may be added, in a pleasanter manner; and if, at her parties, the bigwigs did not always talk to the littlewigs, yet the littlewigs were in the same room with the bigwigs, which is something even at the moment, and really very nearly as good for purposes of future reference.

George made his way across the crowded rooms, recognising many acquaintances as he went. There was Mr. Blodwell talking to the last new beauty—he had a wonderful knack of it,—and Sidmouth Vane talking to the last new heiress, who would refuse him in a month or two. An atheistic philosopher was discussing the stagnation of the stock-markets with a high-church Bishop—Mrs. Pocklington always aimed at starting people on their points of common interest: and Lady Wheedleton, of the Primrose League, was listening to Professor Dressingham’s description of the newest recipe for manure, with an impression that the subject was not quite decent, but might be useful at elections. General Sir Thomas Swears was asking if anybody had seen the Secretary for War—he had a word to say to him about the last rifle; but nobody had. The Countess Hilda von Someveretheim was explaining the problem of “Darkest England” to the Minister of the Republic of Compostella; Judge Cutter, the American mystic, was asking the captain of the Oxford Boat Club about the philosophy of Hegel, and Miss Zoe Ballance, the pretty actress, was discussing the relations of art and morality with Colonel Belamour of the Guards.

George was inclined to resent the air of general enjoyment that pervaded the place: it seemed a little unfeeling. But he was comforted by catching sight of Isabel. She was talking to a slight young man who wore an eye-glass and indulged in an expression of countenance which invited the conclusion that he was overworked and overstrained. Indeed, he was just explaining to Miss Bourne that it was not so much long hours as what he graphically described as the “tug on his nerves” that wore him out. Isabel had never suffered from this particular torture, but she was very sympathetic, said that she had often heard the same from other literary men (which was true), and promised to go down to supper with Mr. Espion later in the evening. Mr. Espion went about his business (for, the fact is, he was “doing” the party for the Bull’s-eye), and the coast was left clear for George, who came up with a deliberately lugubrious air. Of course Isabel asked him what was the matter; and, somehow or other, it happened that in less than ten minutes she was in possession of all the material facts, if they were facts, concerning Neaera Witt and the pair of shoes.

The effect was distinctly disappointing. Amiability degenerates into simplicity when it leads to the refusal to accept obvious facts merely because they impugn the character of an acquaintance; and what is the use of feminine devotion if it boggles over accepting what you say, just because you say something a little surprising? George was much annoyed.

“I am not mistaken,” he said. “I did not speak hastily.”

“Of course not,” said Isabel. “But—but you have no actual proof, have you, George?”

“Not yet; but I soon shall have.”

“Well, unless you get it very soon——”

“Yes?”

“I think you ought to withdraw what you have said, and apologise to Mrs. Witt.”

“In fact, you think I was wrong to speak at all?”

“I think I should have waited till I had proof; and then, perhaps——”

“Everybody seems to think me an ass.”

“Not that, George; but a little—well—reckless.”

“I shan’t withdraw it.”

“Not if you get no proof?”

George shirked this pointed question, and, as the interview was really less soothing than he had expected, took an early opportunity of escaping.

Mr. Espion came back, and asked why Neston had gone away looking so sulky. Isabel smiled and said Mr. Neston was vexed with her. Could anybody be vexed with Miss Bourne? asked Mr. Espion, and added,

“But Neston is rather crotchety, isn’t he?”

“Why do you say that?” asked Isabel.

“Oh, I don’t know. Well, the fact is, I was talking to Tommy Myles at the Cancan——”

“Where, Mr. Espion?”

“At the theatre, and he told me Neston had got some maggot in his head——”

“I don’t think he ought to say that.”

But need we listen longer? And whose fault was it—Neaera’s, or George’s, or Isabel’s, or Tommy’s, or Mr. Espion’s? That became the question afterwards, when Lord Tottlebury was face to face with the violated compact,—and with next day’s issue of the Bull’s-eye.