She knew what she had to do. She composed her features and covered them with powder, and rang the bell.

It was the cook who answered it, not the new parlour maid. The cook, whom Mrs. Poynder worked hard and bullied, was in consequence a firm ally of the young and far niente mistress of the house, who preferred pleasant and flattering looks even to good service.

“Mary,” Mrs. Elles said urbanely, “come and help me! I want to catch the night mail for the south.”

They pulled open drawers and dragged in trunks. Mrs. Elles was not sure that she was not leaving her husband’s house for ever, and she did not mean to go without her things. The two women worked hard, carrying on a fragmentary conversation the while.

“How has your master been while I was away?” she asked of the cook, proud of being able to show that amount of good feeling.

“He’s not been to say sae well. The doctor’s been in once or twice, to please the missis—Mrs. Poynder, I mean. But the master doesn’t seem to hold with doctors much.”

“No, I know he hates them,” said his wife, carefully controlling her surprise. It was natural that Mortimer should have given way a little during her absence, partly through temper, and partly for want of her supervision, but still a little fit of excess did not seem to indicate so important a step as the calling in of doctors. “But I wonder why I have not heard anything of all this except through you?” she added, forgetting to be prudent. “What was it?”

“Oh, just a fainting fit like. Missis Poynder found him in his study a day or two back, and it took a fair half hour to bring him round.”

“Why wasn’t I telegraphed for?”

“Eh, ma’am, ye were away for your health, and so Missis Poynder thought she wouldn’t go for to agitate ye. It’s all passed off, but the doctor he says as Master behoved to be car’ful.”

“Heart?” murmured Mrs. Elles, with the interrogative inflexion, not liking to ask a direct question. She was really a little anxious. She did not positively hate her husband.

“Yes, that’s what doctor said. Avoid excitement—sperrits the worst thing!”

Everyone in the house knew that this prohibition was by no means unnecessary.

“Well, Mary, you must look after him while I am away. I am going up to London on business. See that he has what he likes.” She pressed five shillings into the cook’s hand, feeling the glow of accomplishment of the whole duty of a married woman and picturesque forgiveness of insult and injuries.

Her packing was done. It was half-past eleven. She had a whole hour before her.

Of the laws of her country she had about as much practical knowledge as most women—that is to say none at all! She was full of the proposition she had made to Mortimer, of a bloodless duel, an amicable separation, a social catastrophe which should affect herself only, leaving Rivers untouched. The engagement between Rivers and Egidia, which she was going to London to suggest, would surely tell very much in favour of her plan, but she must neglect nothing, leave no stone unturned for the accomplishment of his salvation. She had made up her mind to work this thing for Rivers, to be his diplomatic angel, and that her heroic plan involved the surrendering of him to another woman only added to the sublimity of the act.

She went down to her husband’s study; she knew he was out; she hoped she would not have the ill luck to meet Mrs. Poynder.

The house was perfectly still. There stood the row of collected legal wisdom, dusty, dull, abstruse, but full of vital truths for her at this moment. In a few minutes she was deep in law, and covered and daubed with its dust.

She found no hint of a previous engagement of the co-respondent being considered as a circumstance invalidating the divorce, but she saw that she and her husband must on no account sleep under the same roof to-night. That was why he had gone out. He probably did not intend to return. It was a pity he did not know that she was going to take the initiative and leave him, and could not see her boxes at that very moment standing in the hall, strapped and corded and mountainous.

She stood there, taking down one volume after another, feeling the thief of knowledge, since it was from her husband’s own books that she was gleaning the wherewithal to discomfit him when the time came. At any rate they would start fair! About on a level with her hand, she noticed a Blue Book on the Laws of Divorce. She eagerly took it down from the shelf. It seemed clearly written and fairly explanatory.

“There is no divorce by mutual consent of husband and wife.”

She saw that she had been talking nonsense to Mortimer upstairs. How he must have laughed at her absurd proposition!

“The Causes of Divorce.” This seemed a useful heading! She read on eagerly.

“Attempt by one of the parties on the life of the other, either personally, or by an accomplice.”

But she had not attempted Mortimer’s life, nor had Rivers attempted that of Mortimer, and though she had heard of cruelty, she had not thought of this definition of it.

“I had no idea the laws of my country were so absurd!” she exclaimed, laying down the blue book in a pet. Then a glance at its cover showed her that the volume she held referred to the Laws of Foreign Countries, and this was the procedure of the Argentine Republic that she was looking at!

She gave that up, and reached down Stephen’s Commentaries, and tried to find some hint there that would be useful to her.

She read on it for a good quarter of an hour, but the legal phrases puzzled her, the scantiness of details left her uncertain, the heavy volumes tired her hands to hold. She was no wiser, and a good deal wearier.

The door opened behind her. Instinctively she turned round.

“Oh, Mortimer, what is a femme sole?”

. . . . . . . .

She laughed to herself, as the train sped southwards through the night, when she thought of her last sight of her husband as he stood in the doorway, apparently transfixed by her extraordinarily indiscreet question. His abrupt volte face and retreat reminded her that an injured husband is not to be used as an EncyclopÆdia Britannica. Henceforth she was as a noxious animal, to be got rid of, not argued with. She laughed, and then she cried, but finally her offended dignity won the day, and the train deposited a heroine, rugless, hopeless, comfortless, but still a heroine, every inch of her, on the platform at King’s Cross in the early dawn.

She took a room at the Great Northern Hotel and waited in all the day till the calling hour, except for a little excursion to a jeweller’s shop near the station, where she sold her one magnificent diamond ring for about a third of its value. At four o’clock she dressed herself beautifully and took a hansom to Queen Anne’s Mansions, where Egidia lived. She made sure of finding the novelist at home; she had heard her say she was at home on Fridays; if she was not alone she would outstay the other callers. As she drove along she looked at herself critically in the little glass in the corner of the cab.

“Talk of the empire of the mind over the body, it is nothing to that of the mind over the complexion!” she said to herself, but was pleased to see that two sleepless nights had only made her eyes larger and her face more interesting. Looks are the sinews of a woman’s war and, though she was not going to quarrel with Egidia but merely give up her lover to her, her prettiness would serve to mark and accentuate her heroism.

It was five o’clock when her cab drove under the archway and pulled up at the big door which is the portal to so many homes. Egidia lived very near the top, but she preferred to walk up, she was afraid of the lift. On the threshold of the door which was the novelist’s, as the boy who rang the bell for her informed her, she caught her dress in the mat and stumbled as the maid opened the door.

“It means something!” she said to herself.

It meant that she was nervous. She was going to do an absurd thing; make a most curiously intimate proposition to a woman she hardly knew! It was like a scene in a novel. If only Egidia would not be too matter-of-fact,—would consent to stay in the picture, as it were! As a novelist she would be apt for irregular situations, and able to enjoy and employ them.

The parlour-maid mumbled her name, which she had mumbled to her. Egidia, in a red teagown, like a handsome velvet moth, rose from a low seat to receive her, and Mrs. Elles felt like a frivolous butterfly in the somewhat freakish, bizarre habiliments in which she elected to express her personality.

“Oh, it is you!” exclaimed the novelist, her lips breaking into a kind smile and her eyes diffusing cordiality, as she held out both hands.

A tall figure rose from his seat on the other side of the fireplace, and Mrs. Elles’s eyes were fixed on him while Egidia was speaking.

“So you have found your way here at last! Where are you staying? Let me introduce Mr. Edmund Rivers—Mrs. Mortimer Elles!”

Why should he not be calling on Egidia? It was the most natural thing. Mrs. Elles had never thought of this contingency, and yet she would not have had it not happen for the world. She was not a woman who would go out of her way to avoid situations. She bowed—he bowed; and then Egidia seeming by her manner to prescribe a greater intimacy, they shook hands. Oh! why was it so dark? She could not see his face.

“Will you ring the bell, Edmund, please, for another cup. Mrs. Elles, you must have some tea!”

“Thank you, no. I think I won’t——” began Mrs. Elles. To calmly sit down and drink a cup of tea at a juncture like this! It was not to be thought of.

“Oh, but you must. North country people can’t do without their tea, I know that. Only in London we don’t have sweet little cakes like yours. What do you call them—girdle cakes?”

So Egidia ran on, putting her visitor into a chair and pouring out a cup of tea and looking after her comfort in the most solicitous manner. Mrs. Elles felt that, considering “everything,” this made her look ridiculous—but then Egidia could not be expected to know about “everything”! Rivers would surely not have told her about what had happened in the woods of Brignal. That was their affair—hers and his. Egidia would never have received her like this had she known. She felt a warm glow of pleasure on recognising the bond between her and him of a common secret.

But he was very cleverly neutral in manner. As he handed her the cake his eyes met hers with a curious look, searching but impenetrable. It disconcerted her. It seemed to take her all in, but it gave nothing out. But she was at least positive that there was no love in it, no pleasurable excitement in a loved mistress refound. Under the oppression of this idea she took a draught of hot tea that scalded her and in the access of pain that ensued persuaded herself that she was glad of the counter-irritant.

“Look, Mrs. Elles, at this little sketch Mr. Rivers has just given me for my birthday,” Egidia was saying, as she held up a framed water-colour drawing lovingly.

Mrs. Elles looked at it. The rush of recollection was not so blinding as she expected, but poignant enough.

“Where is it?” she asked, for form’s sake. She knew well enough.

“May I tell her, Edmund?”

He made a little nod in the affirmative.

“Well, he could scarcely try to keep that knowledge from me,” Mrs. Elles thought to herself.

“It is Rokeby,” Egidia went on, “Scott’s Rokeby—that place where Mr. Rivers works so much. Rather near your part of the world, I believe.”

“I know it well,” Mrs. Elles said.

Rivers was standing abstractedly a few yards away from the two women. Mrs. Elles resented his lack of emotional interest.

“It is quite charming!” she said, raising her voice. “And is that a little figure I see—on the edge of the stream? Some village girl you got to stand for you, I suppose?”

It was no village girl, and she knew it. It was herself, done by her own desire. She had begged him to put in some human interest for once, and he had indulgently agreed to do so, on condition she supplied it herself. She had posed for twenty minutes under a broiling sun, and had refused the gift of the sketch when it was done. She had somehow wished that the memento of her should be retained by him, not her.

No, he could never have cared for her, or he could never have borne to give away that sketch to another woman! Her lips stiffened and then quivered. Had she known what was actually the fact, that the circumstance of her posing for that particular sketch had completely lapsed from the painter’s memory, would she have been less distressed?

“That is the very reason I chose it,” Egidia said, taking the drawing out of her hands. “Mr. Rivers gave me my choice of the Rokeby sketches, and out of a whole quantity of them in his studio I chose this one because it had a little human interest in it. I like people, you know. I should feel the world so cold, so dull, without them. I can’t think how you, Cousin Edmund, manage to do without them so nicely!”

The painter actually laughed—from an excess of nervousness, Phoebe Elles hoped.

“Do say that I may bring Mrs. Elles to see your studio one day? I am sure she would like to see it!”

“I should be delighted,” he said, “only you know a landscape painter’s studio is not much to look at. Now Tadema’s——”

“Ah! but then Mrs. Elles is not blasÉe on the subject of studios as yet, are you, Mrs. Elles? She wants to see a little bit of everything now that she is here, don’t you? You remember our conversation in Newcastle? We must go about a little together and see the sights. I don’t mean the Tower and the Monument—you are of course far above these. You might ask us to tea in your studio,” she ended, turning, suddenly appealing, to Rivers.

“She wants to show off her intimacy with him,” Mrs. Elles thought bitterly.

“I will,” said Rivers gravely. “You must write and name your own day. It will have to be when I come back from Paris.”

“Oh, are you going to Paris?” Egidia exclaimed, obviously surprised and completely uninstructed in his movements.

“I think I shall have to, on business; but I will let you know when I come back, and I will try to get a few interesting people to meet you—and your friend!”

Mrs. Elles had to make what she could out of the slight hesitation. He smiled, forcedly—she was sure it was forcedly.

Egidia’s face was wreathed in kindly natural smiles as he bade good-bye—so was hers. It was pathetic. Mrs. Elles, with her superior knowledge of “fearful consequences, yet hanging in the stars,” felt as if they were all dancing on a grave—treading a volcano. She knew well enough that she would never go to tea with him, never touch his hand again perhaps, as she gave hers, and dreamt of the accustomed thrill of pleasure that the mere contact used to give her. It did not now. Was it that she was too nervous, too frightened to be receptive, or was it that his magnetism had ceased to flow for her, as a consequence of his indifference?

He raised the heavy portiÈre, and the light seemed to go out of two women’s lives as it fell to behind him.

“Well,” said Egidia, complacently, “that will be the first tea party my cousin has ever given in his studio in his life, to my knowledge! I do hope it will come off, for I want you two to be great friends. You will—you are the veritable antithesis of each other.”

Mrs. Elles interrupted her with a sudden burst of hysterical laughter.

“Friends!” she said. “Friends! And my husband is going to make a co-respondent of him!”