Two or three months had passed since Alan's wife came back to him.

He had arranged, with the aid of a lawyer, to allow her a certain regular income—with the consequence to himself that he had been obliged to give up his floor in Montagu Place and settle down in the humbler and dingier refuge of Alfred Place. Meanwhile, he had taken steps to collect sufficient evidence for a divorce. He had not yet entered his suit, and he felt pretty certain that when he did so, and Cora was made aware of it in the usual manner, she would find some way of turning round and biting him.

But the desire to be free from his trammels had taken possession of him with irresistible force, and he was prepared to risk the worst that she could do to him in order to accomplish it. Even as it was, he had reason to think that she was not true to her undertaking not to slander or molest him so long as she received her allowance. He had twice received offensive post-cards, and though there was nothing to prove from whom they came, he could have very little doubt that they had been posted by her in moments when jealous rage or intoxication had got the better of her prudence.

The scandal which began to fasten upon his name after Sydney Campion had heard Brooke Dalton's story in the smoking-room of the Oligarchy was almost forgotten again, though it lurked in the memory of many a thoughtless retailer of gossip, ready to revive on the slightest provocation.

More for Lettice's sake than his own, he lived in complete retirement, and scarcely ever left his lodgings except to spend a few hours in the Museum Reading Room. In this way he avoided the chance of meeting her, as well as the chance of encountering his wretched wife, concerning whose mode of life he had only too trustworthy evidence from the lawyer to whom he had committed his interests.

Then there came a day when he could not deny himself the pleasure of attending a conversazione for which tickets had been sent him by an old friend. The subject to be discussed in the course of the evening was one in which he was specially interested, and his main object in going was that he might be made to forget for a few hours the misery of his present existence, which the last of Cora's post-cards had painfully impressed upon him.

He had not been there more than half-an-hour, when, moving with the crowd from one room to another, he suddenly came face to face with Lettice and the Grahams. All of them were taken by surprise, and there was a little constraint in their greeting. Perhaps Lettice was the least disturbed of the four—for the rest of them thought chiefly of her, whilst she thought of Alan's possible embarrassment, which she did her best to overcome, with the ready tact of an unselfish woman.

Alan had grown doubly sensitive of late, and his one idea had been that Lettice must be preserved from all danger of annoyance, whether by the abandoned woman who had so amply proved the shrewdness of her malice, or by himself—who had no less amply proved his weakness. In pure generosity of mind he would have contented himself with a few grave words, and passed on. But it seemed to her as if he had not the courage to remain, taking for granted her resentment at his unfortunate letter. To her pure mind there was not enough, even in that letter, to cause complete estrangement between them. At any rate, it was not in her to impose the estrangement by any display of anger or unkindness. The sublime courage of innocence was upon her as she spoke.

"See," she said, "the professor is going to begin. The people are taking their seats, and if we do not follow their example all the chairs will be filled, and we shall have to stand for an hour. Let us sit down."

She just glanced at Alan, so that he could regard himself as included in the invitation; and, nothing loth, he sat down beside her. The lecturer did not start for another ten minutes, and Lettice occupied the interval by comparing notes with Clara Graham: for these two dearly loved a gossip in which they could dissect the characters of the men they knew, and the appearance of the women they did not know. It was a perfectly harmless practice as indulged in by them, for their criticism was not malicious. The men, after one or two commonplaces, relapsed into silence, and Alan was able to collect his thoughts, and at the same time to realize how much happiness the world might yet have in store for him, since this one woman, who knew the worst of him, did not think it necessary to keep him at a distance.

Then the professor began to speak. He was a small and feeble man, wheezy in his delivery, and, it must be confessed, rather confused in his ideas. He had been invited to make plain to an audience, presumably well read and instructed, the historical bearings of certain recent discoveries in Egypt; and the task was somewhat difficult for him. There were seven theories, all more or less plausible, which had been started by as many learned Egyptologists; and this worthy old gentleman, though quite as competent to give an opinion, and stick to it, as any of the rest, was so modest and self-depreciatory that he would not go further than to state and advocate each theory in turn, praising its author, and defending him against the other six. After doing this, he was bold to confess that he did not altogether agree with any of the seven. He was on the point of launching his own hypothesis, which would have been incompatible with all the rest, when his heart failed him. He therefore ended by inviting discussion, and sat down, blushing unseen beneath his yellow skin, exactly as he used to blush half a century ago when he was called up to construe a piece of Homer. Three of the seven Egyptologists were present, and they now rose, one after another, beginning with the oldest. Each of them stated his own theory, showing much deference to the lecturer as "the greatest living authority" on this particular subject; and then, after politely referring to the opinions of the two rival savants whom he saw in the audience, became humorous and sarcastic at the expense of the absent four.

But, as the absent are always wrong in comparison with the present, so youth is always wrong in comparison with age. The youngest Egyptologist—being in truth a somewhat bumptious man, fresh from Oxford by way of Cairo and Alexandria—had presumed to make a little feint of sword-play with one of the lecturer's diffident remarks. This brought up the other two who had already spoken; and they withered that young man with infinite satisfaction to themselves and the male part of the audience.

The victim, however, was not young and Oxford-bred for nothing. He rose to deprecate their wrath. He was not, he said, contesting the opinion of the lecturer, whose decision on any detail of the matter under consideration he would take as absolutely final. But he pointed out that the opinion he had ventured to examine was expressed by his friend, Dr. A., in a paper read before the Diatribical Society, six weeks before, and it was manifestly at variance with the canon laid down by his friend, Dr. B., as a fundamental test of knowledge and common-sense in the domain of Egyptology.

Thus discord was sown between Dr. A. and Dr. B., and the seed instantly sprang up, and put an end to all that was useful or amicable in that evening's discussion.

Yet everyone agreed that it had been a most interesting conference, and the audience dispersed in high good humor.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour to clear the crowded rooms, and as Alan had offered his arm to Lettice, in order to guide her through the crush, he had an opportunity of speaking to her, which he turned to good account.

"I am glad to see that your brother is in Parliament," he said.

"Yes; of course we were pleased."

"He will make his mark—has made it already, indeed. He is very eloquent; I have heard him speak more than once. He is a most skillful advocate; if I were ever in trouble I would rather have him on my side than against me."

He was speaking lightly, thinking it must please her to hear her brother praised. But she did not answer his last remark.

"I hope Mrs. Campion is well?"

"Not very well, unfortunately. I am afraid she grows much weaker, and her sight is beginning to fail."

"That must be very trying. I know what that means to an old lady who has not many ways of occupying herself. I was making the same observation at home this morning."

"With regard to your mother?"

"Oh, no. My mother died when I was little more than a boy. But I have an aunt living with me, who must be nearly seventy years old, and she was telling me to-day that she could scarcely see to read."

"Oh," said Lettice, with a rush of blood to her face, "is Mrs. Bundlecombe your aunt?"

"Yes," he said, looking rather surprised, "you spoke as if you knew her. Did you ever see Mrs. Bundlecombe?"

"I—I had heard her name."

"At Angleford? Or Thorley?"

"Of course, I heard of Mr. Bundlecombe there."

"Is it not strange," Alan said, after a short pause, "that I never knew you came from Angleford until that morning when I brought you one of your father's books? Then I asked my aunt all about you. I was never at Angleford in my life, and if I had heard the rector's name as a boy I did not recollect it."

"Yes, it is strange. One is too quick at coming to conclusions. I have to beg your pardon, Mr. Walcott, for I really did think that—that Mrs. Bundlecombe was your mother, and that——"

"That I was not going under my own name? That I was the son of a bookseller, and ashamed of it?"

He could not help showing a trace of bitterness in his tone. At any rate, she thought there was bitterness. She looked at him humbly—for Lettice was destitute of the pride which smaller natures use in self-defence when they are proved to be in the wrong—and said,

"Yes, I am afraid I thought so at the moment."

"At what moment?"

"Do not ask me! I am very sorry."

"And glad to find that you were mistaken?"

"I am very glad."

He tried to meet her eyes, but she did not look at him again.

"It was my own fault," he said. "I was going to mention my connection with your father's bookseller that morning; but—you know—my feelings ran away with me. I told you things more to my discredit, did I not?"

"I remember nothing to your discredit. Certainly what you have told me now is not to your discredit."

"If you had met my aunt in London, of course you would have known. But she does not visit or entertain anyone. You knew she was in London?"

"Yes."

"But you never saw her?"

"Yes, once."

"Oh, I did not know that. When?"

"A long time ago. It was quite a casual and unimportant meeting. Oh, Mr. Walcott, who is that terrible woman?"

They were out of the building by this time, standing on the pavement. Graham had called a cab, and whilst they were waiting for it to draw up Lettice had become aware of a strikingly-dressed woman, with painted face and bold eyes, who was planting herself in front of them, and staring at her with a mocking laugh.

Alan was horrified to see that it was his wife who stood before them, with the mad demoniac look in her eyes which he knew too well.

"Alan, my dear Alan," she cried in a shrill voice, causing everyone to look round at the group, "tell her this terrible woman's name! Tell her that I am your wife, the wife that you have plunged into misery and starvation——"

"For heaven's sake!" said Alan, turning to Graham, "where is your cab? Take them away quickly!"

"Tell her," the virago screamed, "that I am the woman whom you tried to murder, in order that you might be free——"

Here the harangue was cut short by a policeman, who knew the orator very well by sight, and who deftly interposed his arm at the moment when Cora was reaching the climax of her rage. At the same instant the cab drew up, and Lettice was driven away with her friends, not, however, before she had forced Alan to take her hand, and had wished him good-night.

"That must have been his wife," said Clara, whose face was white, and who was trembling violently.

"Yes, confound her!" said her husband, much annoyed by what had happened.

"Could you not stay to see what happens? You might be of some use to Mr. Walcott."

"What good can I do? I wish we had not met him. I have a horror of these scenes; some people, apparently, take them more coolly."

He was out of temper with Lettice, first for sitting by Alan at the conversazione, and then for ostentatiously shaking hands with him on the pavement. Her instinct told her what he was thinking.

"I am sorry it happened," she said; "but when a man is unfortunate one need not take the opportunity of punishing him. It was far worse for him than for us."

"I don't see that," said Graham. "And everyone has to bear his own troubles. Besides, why should a man with such a frightful infliction attach himself to ladies in a public place, and subject them to insult, without so much as warning them what they might expect to meet with?"

"Were you unwarned?"

"I was not thinking of myself. You were not warned."

"I beg your pardon, I was."

"You knew his wife was alive—and—what she is?"

"Yes."

"I must say I cannot understand it."

"You would not have me kind to a man who, as you say, is frightfully afflicted? It was for that very reason I thought we ought to be kind to him to-night."

"My sense of duty does not lead me quite so far; and I do not wish that Clara's should, either!"

"I am sorry," said Lettice, again.

Then there was silence in the cab; but the undutiful Clara was squeezing her friend's hand in the dark, whilst her lord and master fumed for five minutes in his corner. After that, he pulled the check-string.

"What are you going to do?" said Clara.

"Going back again," he said. "You women understand some things better than we do. All the same, I don't know what would happen if you always let your hearts lead you, and if you had no men to look after you. I shall take a hansom and follow on."

He was too late, however, to do any good. The stream of life had swept over the place where Alan and his wife had met, as it sweeps over all the great city's joys and sorrows, glories and disgrace, leaving not a vestige behind.