Saton deliberately turned into the Park, and sauntered along under the trees in the wake of a throng of fashionable promenaders. He exchanged greetings with many acquaintances, and here and there he stopped to say a few words. He noted, as usual, and with a recurrence of his constant discontent, the extraordinary difference in the demeanor of the women and the men of his acquaintance. The former, gracious and smiling, accepted him without reservation. Their murmured words and smiles were even more than gracious. On the other hand, there was scarcely a man whose manner did not denote a certain tolerance, not unmixed with contempt, as though, indeed, they were willing to accept the fact that he was of their acquaintance, but desired at the same time to emphasize the fact that he was outside the freemasonry of their class—a freak, whom they acknowledged on sufferance, as they might have done a wonderful lion-tamer, or a music-hall singer, or a steeplejack. He knew very well that there was not one of them who accepted his qualifications, notwithstanding the approval of their womankind, and the knowledge stung him bitterly.

Presently he came face to face with Lois, walking with Vandermere. His face darkened for a moment. He had expressed his desire that she should see as little of this young man as possible, and here they were, not only walking together, but laughing and talking with all the easy naturalness of old acquaintanceship.

Saton drew a little breath of anger through his teeth as he paused and waited for them. He recognised the terms of intimacy upon which they were. He recognised that between them there was something which had never existed between Lois and himself, something which made their friendship a natural and significant thing. It was the freemasonry of class again, the magic ring against which he had torn his fingers in vain.

They saw him. The whole expression of the girl’s face changed. All the animation seemed to leave her manner. For a moment she clung instinctively to her companion. Afterwards she looked at him no more. She came to Saton at once, and held out her hand without any show of reluctance, yet wholly without spontaneity. It was as though she was obeying orders from a superior.

“Only this morning,” he said, “the Comtesse was speaking of you, Lois. She was so sorry that you had not been to see her lately.”

“I will come this afternoon,” Lois said quietly.

Vandermere, who had frowned heavily at the sound of her Christian name upon Saton’s lips, could scarcely conceal his anger at her promise.

“I have never had the pleasure,” he said, “of meeting the Comtesse. Perhaps I might be permitted to accompany Miss Champneyes?”

“You are very kind,” Saton answered. “I am sorry, but the Comtesse is beginning to feel her age, and she receives scarcely anyone. I am afraid that the days are past when she would care to make new acquaintances.”

“In any case,” Vandermere said, turning to his companion, “weren’t we going to Hurlingham this afternoon?”

“We were,” she said doubtfully, “but I think——”

She looked towards Saton. His face was inexpressive, but she seemed to read there something which prompted her words.

“I think that we must put off Hurlingham, if you do not mind,” she said to Vandermere. “I ought to go and see the Comtesse.”

“It is very kind of you,” Saton said slowly. “She will, I am sure, be glad to see you.”

Vandermere turned aside for a moment to exchange greetings with some acquaintances.

“Lois,” Saton said in a low tone, “you know I have told you that I do not like to see you so much with Captain Vandermere.”

“I cannot help it,” she answered. “He is always at the house. He is a great friend of Mr. Rochester’s. Besides,” she added, raising her eyes to his, “I like being with him.”

“You must consider also my likes and dislikes,” Saton said. “Think how hard it is for me to see you so very little.”

“Oh, you don’t care!” Lois exclaimed tremulously. “You know very well that you don’t care. It is all pretence, this. Why do you do it? Why do you make me so unhappy?”

“No, Lois,” he answered, “it is not pretence. I do care for you, and in a very few weeks I am coming to fetch you away to make you my wife. You will be glad, then,” he went on. “You will be quite happy.”

Vandermere turned back towards them. He had heard nothing of their conversation, but he saw that Lois was white, and he had hard work to speak calmly.

“Come,” he said to Lois, “I think we had better go on. Good morning, Mr. Saton!”

Saton stood aside to let them pass. He knew very well that Lois would have stayed with him, had he bidden it, but he made no attempt to induce her to do so.

“Till this afternoon,” he said, taking off his hat with a little flourish.

“Hang that fellow!” Vandermere muttered, as he looked at Lois, and saw the change in her. “Why do you let him talk to you, dear? You don’t like him. I am sure that you do not. Why do you allow him to worry you?”

“I think,” Lois answered, “that I do like him. Oh, I must like him, Maurice!”

“Yes?” he answered.

“Don’t let us talk about him. He has gone away now. Come with me to the other end of the Park. Let us hurry....”

Saton walked on until he saw a certain mauve parasol raised a little over one of the seats. A moment afterwards, hat in hand, he was standing before Pauline.

“Has he come?” she asked, as he bent over her fingers.

Saton’s face clouded.

“Yes!” he answered. “He came last night. To tell you the truth, he has just gone away in a temper. I do not know whether he will return to the house or not.”

“Why?” she asked quickly.

Saton laughed to cover his annoyance.

“He does not approve of the luxury of my surroundings,” he answered. “He declined to write at my desk, or to sit in my room.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” she answered. “You know how he worships simplicity.”

“Simplicity!” Saton exclaimed. “You should see the place where he writes himself. There is no carpet upon the floor, a block of wood for a writing-table, a penny bottle of ink, and a gnawed and bitten penholder only an inch or two long.”

Pauline nodded.

“I can understand it,” she said. “I can understand, too, how your rooms would affect him. You should have thought of that. If he has gone away altogether, how will you be able to finish your work?”

“I must do without him,” Saton answered.

Pauline looked at him critically, dispassionately.

“I do not believe that you can do without him,” she said. “You are losing your hold upon your work. I have noticed it for weeks. Don’t you think that you are frittering away a great deal of your time and thoughts? Don’t you think that the very small things of life, things that are not worth counting, have absorbed a good deal of your attention lately?”

He was annoyed, and yet flattered that she should speak to him so intimately.

“It may be so,” he admitted. “And yet, do you know why I have chosen to mix a little more with my fellows?”

“No!” she answered. “I do not know why.”

“It is because I must,” he said, lowering his tone. “It is because I must see something of you.”

The lace of her parasol drooped a little. Her face was hidden now, and her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

“That is very foolish,” she said. “In the first place, if my opinion of you is worth anything, I tell you frankly that I would rather see you with ink-stained fingers and worn clothes, climbing your way up toward the truth, working and thinking in an atmosphere which was not befouled with all the small and petty things of life. It seems to me that since it amused you to play the young man of fashion, you have lost your touch—some portion of it, at any rate—upon the greater things.”

Saton was very angry now. He was only indifferently successful in his attempt to conceal the fact.

“You, too,” he muttered. “Well, we shall see. Naudheim has brains, and he has worked for many years. He had worked, indeed, for many years when the glimmerings of this thing first came to me. He could help me if he would, but if he will not, I can do it alone.”

“I wonder.”

“You do not believe in me,” he declared.

“No,” she answered, “I do not believe in you—not altogether!”

Rochester and his wife drove down the Park. Saton followed her eyes, noticing her slight start, and gazed after them with brooding face.

“Rochester is becoming quite a devoted husband,” he remarked, with a sneer.

“Quite,” she answered. “They spend most of their time together now.”

“And Lady Mary, I understand,” he went on, “has reformed. Yesterday she was opening the new wing of a hospital, and the day before she was speaking at a Girls’ Friendly Society meeting. It’s an odd little place, the world, or rather this one particular corner of it.”

She rose, with a little shrug of the shoulders, and held out her hand.

“I must go,” she said. “I am lunching early.”

“May I walk a little way with you?” he begged.

She hesitated. After all, perhaps, it was a phase of snobbery to dislike being seen with him—something of that same feeling which she had never failed to remark in him.

“If you please,” she answered. “I am going to take a taximeter at the Park gates.”

“I will walk with you as far as there,” he said.

He tried to talk to her on ordinary topics, but he felt at once a disadvantage. He knew so little of the people, the little round of life in which she lived. Before they reached the gates they had relapsed into silence.

“It is foolish of me,” he said, as he called a taximeter, “to come here simply in the hope of seeing you, to beg for a few words, and to go away more miserable than ever.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“It is certainly very foolish,” she admitted.

“I don’t see why,” he protested, “you should disapprove of me so utterly.”

“I do not disapprove,” she told him. “I have not the right. I have not the desire to have the right. Only, since you will have me tell you, I am interested in your work. I like to talk about it, to hear you talk when you are enthusiastic. It does not amuse me to see you come down to the level of these others, who while their morning away doing nothing. You are not at home amongst them. You have no place there. When you come to me as a young man in Society, you bore me.”

She stepped into the taximeter and drove away, with a farewell nod, abrupt although not altogether unkindly. Yet as she looked behind, a few seconds later, her face was very much softer—her eyes were almost regretful.

“It may hurt him,” she said to herself, “but it is very good that he should hear the truth.”