NIGEL “ran across” Rupert in Paris—Englishmen who are acquainted with each other always do meet in Paris—and they agreed to dine together. Each was pleased to see the other, not so much for each other’s own sake, but for the pleasure of associations. The sight of Rupert reminded Nigel of one of the pleasantest evenings in his life—that evening they had spent at the Russian Ballet. Bertha had sat next to him. Bertha had been delightful. She had looked lovely and laughed at his jokes, and had been all brightness and amiability—it had been before the first shadow, the first thought of È pensÉe had risen in her mind to cloud her light heart. And he at that time, with what he saw now to be his dense stupidity, had believed that she was beginning to like him, that she was even on the way to get to care for him in time if he managed with great tact and did not annoy Percy nor seem wanting in deference for him, and above all if he did not give it away about Mary’s jealousy. He always knew that if Bertha once learnt that, it would be fatal to his hopes. She was never to know it.

And now everything had come out, everything had gone wrong in the most horrible, hideous way. It had all gone off like young Pickering’s fireworks. When he remembered that dreadful scene at the party it made him shudder. How hopelessly stupid he had been to persuade her to come! How could he have been so idiotic? Looking at Rupert reminded him of the delightful little meetings and talks he had had with Bertha about him and Madeline. How charmingly grateful and delighted she had been at his offering to help her and smooth away the difficulties by diplomacy. And this was how he had done it! Madeline was now engaged to nobody.

Bertha knew all about the jealousy and had been exposed to insults. And Percy knew even more about it than she did. Talk of diplomacy! Nigel must have been indeed a poor diplomatist, since, without having ever done the slightest harm or indeed really said a word of love to Bertha, he had yet brought her husband down upon him, forbidding him the house and sending him to the devil. That was diplomacy, wasn’t it? and as to success, she regarded him with indifference bordering on aversion and was clearly madly in love with that dull uninteresting Percy. All (Nigel admitted), all his own stupidity. Whether or not wickedness is punished in another world, there can be no doubt that stupidity and folly is most decidedly punished in this.

But then, could he help it that Mary went behind his back and wrote the most dreadful letters, that she had this terrible mania for writing letters? But if he had been so very clever and diplomatic he would somehow or another have prevented it. Oh yes, there was no doubt he was a fool, and he had without doubt been made supremely ridiculous. He was well aware that he was ridiculous.

Rupert Denison liked Nigel, but he had no idea how intimate he was with Nigel. In other words he hadn’t the faintest idea how well Nigel knew him. And this is a case which happens every day owing to the present custom of confidential gossip; and is too frequently rather unfairly arranged through the intimate friendship of women. For example, Madeline, regarding Bertha as the most confidential of sisters, told her every little thing, showed her every letter, and had no shadow of a secret from her in word or thought. Bertha was almost equally confiding except than an older married woman is never quite so frank with a girl friend—there must always be certain reservations. Bertha was an intimate friend of Nigel and practically told him every little thing—he was “the sort of man you could tell everything to,” he was interested, amused, and gave excellent advice. The result was obvious; very little about Rupert and his private romance with Madeline was unrevealed to Nigel.

Nigel felt inclined to smile when he remembered all he had heard. Rupert, on the other hand, was not “the sort of man you could tell everything to”; he therefore had no confidential women friends and knew nothing at all about Nigel. For all he knew, he was just as much as ever l’ami de la maison at Percy’s house.

At the very end of the dinner, which was a very pleasant one, during which Nigel had been sparkling and Rupert a little quiet, Nigel suddenly “felt it in his bones,” as Bertha used to say—dear Bertha, she used to declare that her bones were so peculiarly and remarkably sensitive to anything of interest—Nigel felt, as I say, Rupert was longing to talk about Madeline.

He therefore led the conversation to her, remarked how quiet she had been of late, and told him various things about her.“Did she ever mention me?” asked Rupert, as he looked down at his wineglass.

“Oh yes, rather.”

“What did she say?”

“She said,” replied Nigel, “that she was jolly glad she never saw you now and that you were a silly rotter!”

“I recognise Miss Madeline’s style,” replied Rupert with a smile, as he rose from the table.