Maddison being engaged to lunch and tea on the following Sunday—the first of those on which he expected his suppers to commence again—Marian was left to herself the whole day, spending it in lounging discontent.

The gilt was wearing off the prize she had won, and each day she grew more impatient for change. It was not in her to wish that she were otherwise gifted and that she could rest content with present conditions. She desired more than she possessed, spent no effort in endeavoring to drill herself into being satisfied with what she had, but kicked against the pricks.

Of Maddison’s friends she had met only Mortimer and West. She was to all intents alone in London with Maddison.

She was free to act, eager to do so, but as yet she had found no outlet for her energy or ambition. Also, she was not a little lonely; whenever, as on this day, Maddison was not with her, she was thrown back on herself. At times even, it seemed to her as if she had only freed herself from the active and pressing annoyances of the past, and that in reality she was no more free now than then. She had but flown from one cage to another, and was again beating her wings against the bars in angry endeavor to escape for a stronger and farther flight.

After luncheon she sat down before the fire, trying to read a volume of Rossetti that Maddison had given her. The rhyme jingled through her head but made no impression, and conveyed neither sense nor beauty. Throwing the book aside on the floor, she lighted a cigarette and lay back dreamily in the soft, deep chair. The cigarette finished, she closed her eyes and soon fell asleep.

She awoke with a start and a shudder; the fire was nearly out, the room was chilly, the afternoon was quickly closing in. She shivered, wondering what sound it was that had aroused her. The maid came in, turning on the electric light as she entered, followed by a tall, elegantly-dressed woman.

“Mrs. Harding,” the maid announced.

Marian struggled out of the deep chair and looked inquiringly at the stranger.

“No, you don’t know me,” said Mrs. Harding; “I’ll tell you who I am in a minute. I’m afraid I woke you out of a snooze? So sorry. It’s almost the only thing one can do on such a beastly afternoon—sleep and drink—and both are stupid by yourself. So I thought I’d trot downstairs and see if you were blue too.”

A vague recollection came to Marian of having passed Mrs. Harding on the stairs once or twice.

“Won’t you sit down?” she said. “I’ll ring and have the fire made up, and it must be tea time.”

She was anxious to learn the real meaning of this intrusion. Any diversion was welcome.

“You’re jolly snug here,” Mrs. Harding remarked, after a survey of the room while the maid had stirred up the fire and set the tea table ready. “Mine are rather frowsy, but then my old man’s a bit of a screw. You’ve had better luck than me. Hope it’ll last. That’s the worst of the jolly ones, they get tired so quickly, and if you hold the reins tight they simply kick up and bolt. I know.”

As it dawned upon her what was the character—or rather the want of it—of her visitor, Marian examined her face more critically. The woman was insolently handsome; masses of blue-black hair set off to perfection the almost dead-white of her face; the forehead was low and broad, the eyes dark and deep-set under heavy brows; the mouth large and sensuous, showing, when open, a perfect row of teeth; the chin alone was weak. She was expensively dressed, her tight-fitting tailor-made gown showing to advantage the bold outline of the figure.

“Now the girl’s gone we can chat cozily,” continued the visitor. “I never talk before my maid, because I don’t want her to talk over me and my doings with—say yours. I’d rather tell you myself what I want you to know. You’re not so careful. Your maid talks to mine, mine to me, so indirectly you’ve told me a good deal about yourself.”

“I’m much obliged to you,” Marian said quietly; “Anne shall leave to-morrow.”

“I thought it only pally to tell you, but I shouldn’t sack her—they’re all the same. I don’t let mine know more than I can help, though that’s more than safe if I annoyed her and she told the old ’un about—the others. You must have a pretty lonely time of it?”

“It’s a rest to be alone sometimes.”

At first Marian had felt inclined to be angry at this woman having thrust herself upon her, but curiosity succeeded. She had never spoken to one of her class before—of her own class, it flashed upon her—and to do so might prove interesting, possibly also instructive.

“Rest? Oh, yes, I suppose so, but I hate resting. That’s the worst of being kept by an old josser, he neither gives you any fun himself nor gives you much chance of getting any with anyone else. But I don’t do so badly. The certainty of it is the decent part of it. Thank God, he goes away sometimes, and then I just make up for lost time, don’t I! Your George——”

“My——!”

“That’s his name, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“He’s all right, just enough and not too much, I should say. You’re only a beginner, and don’t know yet what we have to put up with and what we become. Oh! We’re a lively lot, some of us, regular devils. I steer clear of them as much as I can, but one must talk to a woman sometimes. At least I must. I hope you don’t mind my coming in this way?”

“Not a bit. Another cup of tea?”

“No, thanks, but if I could have a B. and S. I’d not say ‘No.’”

Marian rang and bade the maid bring the necessaries.

“I liked the look of you,” Mrs. Harding continued, “and it’s pleasant to have a friendly neighbor; it’s a nuisance to be always going out. It’s a sickening life sometimes, but I wouldn’t change it for any other. Not to be a duchess! I did try to settle down once with a man who wanted to marry me, but it nearly drove me crazy. The love of it’s in my blood. Yours, too, from the look of you. There’s plenty of fun too. You meet good sorts as well as bad, and take my tip, when you meet a good sort, treat him well. It’s funny our living here; I believe everyone else in the house is straight. Judging by their looks, they can’t have had much temptation to be otherwise. Their wedding rings ain’t make-believe like ours. A cigarette? Thanks: This is brandy! Jolly good,” she said, tasting it; “it’d be a sin to put water in that. Here’s luck!”

She drank the brandy neat, with evident relish.

“What are you going to do to-night? Care to come out with me and dine somewhere?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I should like to, but I’m engaged to supper.”

“Lucky girl, I ain’t. My old man went off all of a sudden and left me in the lurch. If I’d known he was going I’d have fixed up some fun, but he didn’t tell me till after breakfast this morning. He’s just cussed sometimes, and never let’s on when he will be away. Well, I must trust to luck. Come some other night; and do come up to see me—he don’t mind feminine friends.”

“I’d like to come.”

“By the way, my dear, while I think of it, you’ll do well to look about you before he leaves you in the lurch. Funny thing, a year or two ago I used to see a good deal of Georgie. He don’t stick to anyone long. He soon got tired of me and I wasn’t too much cut up about it; he’s too finicky for my taste. I shall never forget his face when he found me a bit fuzzy-wuzzy with fizzy wine one night. I always called him old blue ribbon after that.”

She laughed quietly, a deep, low, melodious note. Then she got up and walked about the room, looking at the pictures and ornaments.

“I must say he’s fixed you up as if you’d caught his fancy strong. He only took a furnished place for me. But don’t put all your trust in any man’s pocket. Do you play?” she asked, sitting down to the piano. “Here goes for a hymn.”

She played a catchy air and then sang the first verse and chorus of a drinking song that then held the ear of the town.

“But there, I’ll be off, my dear. Georgie might catch me here and not approve. I shan’t come to see you again till you’ve been to see me. I’ve a sort of idea we shall be pals, I want one badly. I can put you up to a wrinkle or two; I’ve one or two to spare,” she said, looking at her reflection in the glass. “Oh, don’t worry to ring, I’ll let myself out. I’m never proud, except when it pays me to be so. Good night; be good and you won’t be happy.”

There was a frank bonhomie about the woman that attracted Marian. Their aims were different, perhaps, but their methods seemed much the same. Moreover, it seemed not unlikely that she might prove helpful, and that in some matters and on some occasions she might be a useful adviser. Further, there was a growing lawlessness in Marian’s blood that made her thirst sometimes to taste degradation, and this woman could lead her to it.

It was now nearly six o’clock. She had promised Maddison to go round early to the studio. She wished now that she had been free to accept Mrs. Harding’s invitation, and made up her mind to do so some night soon, if it could be safely arranged.

The housekeeper opened the door to her, and told her that a gentleman was waiting in the studio to see Mr. Maddison. Marian nodded and went in, expecting to find Mortimer or one of the other men who had been summoned. The big room was dimly lit. She shut the door behind her and went toward the fireplace, in a chair by which a man was sitting with his back toward her.

He rose at the sound of her approach. It was her husband.

“Marian!”

She stood stock-still as he came quickly toward her, with his hands outstretched.

But the eager joy in his eyes was met by anger in hers.

“How dare you come here?” she asked. “Keep away from me. Don’t touch me!”

He stopped, bewildered.

“How did you know I was here?” she went on.

“I didn’t know. I’ve searched and searched for you, walked the streets in the hope of catching a glimpse of you. Then Ellis told me he had seen you with Mr. Maddison, so I came straight here, thinking he would perhaps know your address. But I can hardly speak—I’m so glad.”

“You’d better go back and sit down again. I’ve something to say to you. You—don’t understand.”

The tone of her voice chilled him as if an icy finger had been laid upon his heart, but he did not move.

“What is it?”

She went past him over to the fireplace, and stood there looking at the glowing logs. So he knew really nothing! Should she tell him everything? She quickly decided not to do so unless driven to it. Turning round sharply to him, she said:

“You don’t understand. I left you because I didn’t want to see you again. Coming after me like this won’t make any difference, won’t do a bit of good. I’ve left you and I won’t come back. You’d better forget me as quickly as you can.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” he repeated. “I can’t. And why should I? I want you to forgive me. I did try to be good to you, but I must have failed miserably to have driven you away from me. I’ve been thinking over what you said about my being selfish. Come back. Try me once more. Won’t you?”

“No. I won’t. I can’t. You don’t understand. I hate you. I hate everything you think and do. We’re utterly different.”

With a gesture of helpless despair he turned away and began to pace up and down.

She could not help pitying him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it can’t be helped. It was a stupid mistake our marrying—but I didn’t know myself then. You don’t know me now. It would be a worse mistake, though, for me to come back.”

“God help me. I’ve thought of nothing but you since you went away. Is there nothing I can do?—nothing I can say?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” she broke in vehemently. “Nothing, I tell you. Why can’t you believe me? It’s no use talking about it. You’d better go.”

He stood looking at her, but could read in her eyes only stubborn defiance. For the first time he noticed the new brightness in her beauty and the richness of her dress.

“Where are you?” he asked; “what are you doing?”

“I’m quite happy, or rather should be if only you’d leave me alone,” was the answer.

But he persisted, there coming suddenly into his mind a suspicion of the truth.

“Why are you here? The servant must have told you Maddison was out, and—you came in as if you were at home.”

“I won’t answer any more questions. I told you you’d better go.”

“You needn’t answer. I know. I can see it in your face. You’re this man’s mistress. You—come to this. But it’s not too late. Come away, with me—we’ll go away—anywhere, far away——”

“Oh! why don’t you go?” she interrupted, stamping her foot, and clenching her hands as if she would have liked to strike him. “I am his mistress. Now, go.”

“Not without you——”

“You must. You’re simply making a fool of yourself. I’m alive and free now—do you think you can get me back? Save as many other souls as you can, but let me do as I like with mine. Haven’t you any pride? I’m through and through what you call a bad woman. I’m wicked because I enjoy being wicked. Even if I tired of it, I’d not come back to you.”

She rang the bell, and before he could find his speech the servant came in.

“This gentleman has left a message with me for Mr. Maddison,” Marian said; then bowing coldly to Edward, added: “Good night.”

The servant held the door open.

Squire hesitated, and then let his eyes drop before hers and slowly went out.

When she heard the outer door shut, she sat down and began slowly to pull off her long gloves. He might come back, even to-night. She knew how persistent he could be and felt sure he would not leave any effort untried to take her away from the life she was leading, even if he could not persuade her to return to him.

She folded the gloves mechanically and laid them on the table beside her. Then took off her hat and sank back in the chair, her hands gripping the arms tightly.

The position seemed impossible, and she was angry that she had not foreseen and provided for it. Either something must be done to prevent her husband coming here again, or she must only meet Maddison elsewhere. Was not this last the solution? If she only saw him at her flat—or elsewhere—anywhere but here—it would free her sufficiently from him to allow of her pursuing other ends and other pleasures, while she could hold him to her sufficiently closely and for a sufficient length of time to obtain all she required from him.

Then the thought struck her that Edward would probably be waiting outside and might waylay Maddison and make a scene. This must be avoided. The only chance of leading him away, if indeed he were waiting, was for her to leave; he would follow her. She hastily made ready and went out.

She looked cautiously up and down the dimly lit street, but could not see him. She walked quickly, and as she turned into the main thoroughfare, glanced back and saw that he was following her. She hastened on, sure that he would keep her in sight. An empty hansom cab came along; she got in, bidding the driver go to Piccadilly Circus.

No thought of the agony Squire was enduring came into her mind. She was angry, excited, possessed by a spirit of malicious mischief. A bend in the road enabled her to look back: there was no other vehicle in sight. She pushed open the trap door above her head, told the driver that she had forgotten something, and bade him drive to the studio. Then she opened the lamp that was behind her, blew out the light, and then huddled as closely as possible into the corner nearest that side of the road along which Squire would most likely come.

She looked eagerly, and soon passed him, walking slowly, bent and bowed.

When she reached the studio Maddison was there.

“What’s up?” he said. “You rush in, I hear, have an interview with a mysterious stranger, rush away and rush back again. But give me a kiss before you answer. Now, sit on my knee and ’fess.”

“George, my husband’s been here.”

“The devil!”

“The devil would have been easier to manage; he doesn’t want to save souls.”

She then told him most but not all of what had taken place.

“It is awkward. Do you think he’ll come again?”

“Sure to, that’s the trouble. Nothing I can say—or you—will stop him. You don’t know what he is. We’re safe for to-night, so you needn’t worry about that, but what can we do? There mustn’t be a row, for your sake. Hullo! there’s somebody, and not a thing ready.”

“All the better—all the more like a picnic. It’s Fred. Come along, we appoint you chef. Marian shall be kitchen maid. I’ll lay the table.”