True to his resolution, made more absolute than ever by Miss Hildreth's last openly displayed indifference, Mr. Tremain determined to leave the Folly on the first possible excuse. His visit had already prolonged itself far beyond its original limits, and in the departure of his friend Mainwaring, he saw a happy opportunity of effacing himself naturally and without too violent a wrench.

John Mainwaring had come down only for the theatricals, and nothing could be more À propos than for Philip to make his adieux with him. As for Patricia, he entertained no softer sentiment towards her than that of distinct disapprobation. He felt it would be a relief to get himself away from her influence and from the spell of her beauty. Twice now she had repudiated him and the love he pleaded; what better proof of her thorough deterioration could any man ask for than this? Could any words have been more sharp than hers, or speak more openly of defiance and glad rejection? Apparently she retained not one tender recollection of the past, or the smallest desire to recur to it. She met him always with cool raillery, mocking aphorisms, or taunting satire; she was hard, brilliant, unresponsive as the diamonds she wore so regally, and to throw oneself upon her sympathies was to wilfully grasp at the glittering sheen of unreality, and be wounded because the substance slipped from one's hold.

Away from her and once more absorbed in the work of his profession, Mr. Tremain felt he could forget her and the past few days of unrest and disquietude. The calm monotony of his personal self-centred routine became a haven of rest in his eyes, to which he looked forward with impatience; forgetting that it is one's inner state of being that makes or mars the tranquillity of one's existence.

Accordingly Mr. Tremain ordered the packing of his portmanteaux, and made known his coming departure the next morning at the very late breakfast hour, at which feast Esther and a few of her guests appeared languid and fatigued, and instant in their demands for the strongest black coffee.

Philip observed with relief that Miss Hildreth was not among the number. Little Marianne was there, sitting by her mother's side, her fair child-face looking all the sweeter and fresher by contrast with the jaded bornÉ appearance of her elders. Vladimir Mellikoff was also among the missing; but Miss James was at her place, seemingly none the worse for her exertions of the evening before, her sallow countenance and dark eyes being untouched either by fatigue or inertia.

Mrs. Newbold received Philip's announcement with voluble expressions of protest.

"Oh, but indeed you must not go," she said, "we really cannot spare you; do reconsider." And she looked at him with an almost exaggerated expression of entreaty in her blue eyes.

"You are very flattering and very kind," replied Philip, avoiding her glance, and answering in conventional tones and words, "but really I must go, it is impossible I should stay longer. Mainwaring has brought me news of an important case, which has been advanced on the calendar, in which I am involved, and even if this were not the case, I could not, my dear Esther, desire to wear out so warm a welcome as yours."

But Mrs. Newbold did not rally to the implied compliment. She shook her head dubiously as she said:

"That is only a faÇon de parler. I did not suppose, Philip, that you would ever descend to subterfuge."

At which Mr. Tremain laughed, and Miss James lifted her eyebrows in scarcely concealed superciliousness.

"One could almost be discourteous to Mr. Mainwaring, in thought, at least," continued Esther, regarding that dark-visaged young man with an expression that belied her smile.

To which he replied, with a half-shrug of his shoulders, that he considered himself fortunate in attracting any portion of Mrs. Newbold's attention. It was a satisfaction to be regarded actively by her, even though that activity took the form of animosity.

Esther bit her lip and was silenced; but George Newbold laughed, and remarked aside to Dick Darling that that was a hit straight out from the shoulder.

Presently Marianne, who had been feeding the long-suffering Trim on deviled kidney scraps, and enjoying, with all the cruelty of childhood, his tears and squerms, lifted her golden head and innocent eyes, and startled the entire company by exclaiming, in her clear shrill treble:

"Mumsey, why does Mr. Val ask so many questions about my Lammy, and when is my Lammy coming back again?"

Esther, decidedly taken by surprise, turned quickly, and spoke with unaccustomed sharpness.

"Who are you talking about, Mimi? Who is Mr. Val? It really is extraordinary the amount of gossip you manage to imbibe from unknown sources."

"Mr. Val," replied little Mimi, with unabashed frankness, "Mr. Val is Mr. Val. I can't say all his name 'cause it's too long, so he said I was to call him Mr. Val. He came out in the garden when I was getting Popsey's buffday flowers, and he talked to me all about Lammy; and when I told him Lammy's very own name, his eyes got so black, and he said, 'When is she coming back?' and, of course, I didn't know. Miss James, she knows Mr. Val; she's always talkin' to him."

At which lucid and candid explanation Miss James felt the blood rush hotly to her cheeks, and Mr. Tremain, with kindly thought, turned attention from her by saying, quickly:

"It must be the Count, Mimi designates by that innocent abbreviation. With the frank socialism of childhood, she is no respecter of persons. 'Mr. Val' sounds just as important in her ears as Count Vladimir does in ours."

"She's a ridiculous little monkey," replied Esther, impatiently; and then the subject dropped, much to Philip's chagrin, as he desired to glean some further particulars concerning Mdlle. Lamien's probable return. Conversation languished after this, however, and one by one the women stole away to their bedrooms, there to sleep off the excitement and fatigue of the previous night.

It was arranged that Mr. Tremain and his friend should take the six o'clock evening boat, which would, as Freddy Slade remarked, land them in New York in ample time for a "refresher" prior to dinner at the club, at that magic hour when each small round table is daintily set out in fine linen and glittering silver, and surrounded by the best-known convives of clubdom.

"The pleasantest hour, by Jove, of the whole twenty-four," said Freddy, enthusiastically. "Upon my word, I quite envy you fellows the sensation you'll produce when you walk into the 'Union.' You will actually smell of the country, 'pastures green,' you know, and all that sort of thing."

For the better part of the day the house remained silent and deserted as far as the lower rooms were concerned, and luncheon, which was at all times a movable feast, became on this occasion a translated one, to be partaken of by the fairer sex within the privacy of their own apartments, and in the luxury of dÉshabilles.

Late in the afternoon Mr. Tremain made his way to Esther Newbold's boudoir, and knocking with assured familiarity, opened the door almost before the customary words of invitation. He found Mrs. Newbold alone, lounging far back in a "sleepy hollow" of a chair, with a tiny tea-service on a low, Japanese stool beside her. She welcomed him cordially and with a charming smile.

"Ah," she exclaimed, "is it you, Philip? I hope you have repented of your morning decision and have come to tell me so, and beg my forgiveness."

"For what?" asked he, wilfully dense.

"For saying you were going away, of course. Haven't you come to tell me you will not go after all?"

"No," said Philip, without any answering smile. "I have come, on the contrary, to bid you good-bye."

"You are unkind," exclaimed Mrs. Newbold, impetuously, "and—you are unwise. What, Philip, are you going to lay down your arms so tamely, and acknowledge yourself beaten by a woman?"

"It would seem so, my dear Esther, if flight means that I am vanquished. Will you give me some of your tea as a stirrup-cup?"

She answered him by pouring out the fragrant Pekoe and handing it to him in silence; the tears stood in her eyes and her mouth quivered a little. She sat still as Philip drank the tea, and then, when he had put down the empty cup and come back to his place beside her, she turned and spoke quickly, and with almost nervous impetuosity.

"Oh, Philip, I am sorry, grieved, inexpressibly grieved that you should go in this way. I had hoped so much for you—for her—yes, more for her—from the propinquity of these few days. And it has all come to nothing, and you are going away, and how can it be possible for you ever to come together, if you persistently let slip each opportunity of an understanding?"

She spoke with so much real earnestness, that Philip was greatly touched. It needed not the mention of Patricia's name to make plain to him who was the object of Esther's solicitude, and he could not but smile sadly as he thought how little worthy was she of Esther's tears and regrets. He bent towards her and took her hand in his.

"My dear little friend," he said, "the truest friend ever granted to an undeserving man, I beg you not to trouble yourself about me or my unfortunate affairs. Let me assure you that I am truly grateful to you for the opportunity you provided me with in which once more to seek and learn my fate. If the result, and my answer, has been but a double repetition of that of ten years ago, is that your fault? My dear Esther, I have looked upon my old love without prejudice or bias, and I have seen her stripped of all the thousand and one artifices that go to make up the woman of the world; we have stood face to face with nothing between us save the memory of the past, and I can say to you with all truth and earnestness, that I am not only glad, but thankful, that her answer to my appeal was what it was. Believe me, there could never be any solid happiness for us so long as the ten years of our separation lies between us like a gulf, dividing our past from our present. It is better as it is, dear Esther, it is better as it is."

He unloosed her hand, and, rising, walked hastily up and down the room. Mrs. Newbold was crying openly, scarcely wiping away the tears as they fell.

"Oh, Philip!" she pleaded, her voice pitiful and broken, "indeed, indeed, you judge her too harshly. Oh, can you not read her heart; are you so blind, so very blind, as not to see it is for you she cares, and you only? It is because she loves you that she strives to hide it all; that she laughs and jests, and is bitter, and mocking, and gay, and frivolous by turns, and never, never once reveals the real, passionate, throbbing woman's heart beneath these artifices. Oh, what can I say to open your eyes?"

"Say nothing," he replied, sternly, "it is best as it is. I am not one, Esther, as you know, to come lightly to a decision, especially one of such grave importance to me; but in this you cannot change me; nothing can alter my decision. You are blinded by your loyalty, you see her as you fain would see her, with the glamour of her beauty and her fascination surrounding her so closely you cannot perceive the real woman beneath. But I have beheld her as she is, cold, hard, brilliant, illusive, heartless; she is but the mocking personation of her old self; the outside tenement, beautiful, bewitching, but soulless and insincere. I told you when we spoke of this before that I would not willingly again become the plaything of a woman's vanity, and yet, so frail are man's resolves, I did again put my fate to the touch, and have again failed and lost. I am not likely to repeat my folly, Esther, when I can still hear the words of scorn with which she repudiated me, and flung back my love as not worthy her consideration."

"It is hopeless, then," cried Esther, imploringly.

"Yes," he replied, shortly, "it is hopeless, and I am glad that it is so."

When next he spoke, it was upon indifferent topics, and there was that in his face and voice which warned Esther against reopening the former subject. Before he left her he stood a moment, holding her hand, and looking down into her flushed and earnest face.

"Do not think me ungrateful," he said, with one of his rare, sweet smiles; "I have had my opportunity, it is my fault that I failed to utilise it to my advantage. After all, these things are arranged for us by a higher power than our own wills. To you, Esther, I can never feel aught but grateful, and you know whenever you need my poor services, they are yours without the asking."

"And hers, Philip, hers also," she pleaded, "you would not refuse your help to her, should she ever require it?"

"That is such an unlikely contingency, your question needs no reply," he answered, gravely; and bending his head until his lips touched the hand he held, he said, with simple gravity: "Good-bye, Esther, and God bless you."

And so he went away from her, and Mrs. Newbold, with the unreasoning instinct of her sex, felt she had never esteemed him so highly as now, when he refused the request she urged so ardently upon him.