You've nothing to distress yourself about, Inez, this is my blunder, and it is I who must beg your pardon."
"Ah, we will not beg each other's pardon then. It is a foolishness between friends," she returned, with just that little foreign touch which rendered her so irresistible.
"I quite agree with you," he replied heartily. "We've other and more important things to consider."
"But what to do?" she exclaimed.
"Well, you must take Sanks' advice, and go to some quiet, private Hotel, – say X – 's. I know them and will introduce you, send you over with Randell: it's better than going with you myself. You'll find it most comfortable."
She shivered and shrugged her shoulders.
"But of course," he hastened to add, "you'll stay and dine with me first."
"But Jim!" she said, rising.
"But why not?" he persisted. "It's a beastly night. You're here. It makes little difference whether you stay an hour or two, or the thirty minutes you have already remained. I'll send you over early in the evening."
"But the household – "
"They'd know in any event. The fact is the important thing to them, the details do not matter. Your staying here for dinner in a prosaic manner, as if there was no reason why you shouldn't, would do more to stop tongues from wagging, than your sudden disappearance after a mysterious visit. Believe me, I should not urge this if it were more or less than common sense."
"But your engagements?"
"I should have dined alone in any case."
She stood uncertain whether to go or to remain, one hand upon the table. Then she smiled at him, though there were tears in her eyes, saying; —
"I will stay – I will trust to your judgment. Whom have I to trust but you?"
"Good!" he cried, an air of quick decision taking possession of him, now her consent had been given; "my landlady will put a room at your disposal should you wish to remove the stains of travel before dinner. You'll find her kindly, if inexperienced. I'll go and explain the situation to her and to my valet." And he stepped towards the door.
"Explain?"
"Explain by all means, my dear. In this country it is the greatest of all mistakes to try to deceive your servants, especially where circumstances give the slightest scope for misconstruction."
"I thought servants were our worst scandal-mongers."
"True, they're only human. But put a well-trained servant on his honour by giving him your confidence, and he's far less likely to betray you, than if you try to blind him to an obvious truth."
She laughed, and he left her to arrange for his impromptu dinner.
When they sat down to table, half an hour later, she was more self-possessed than he had ever before seen her, and chatted away quite gaily on indifferent topics, each taking great care to avoid the one subject which neither could forget.
With the fruit and wine, the valet, who performed the double office of body servant and butler, left them to themselves, having first received careful directions from Stanley in regard to escorting madame to her hotel, half an hour hence.
Once they were alone the reserve, which the servant's presence had called into play, was no longer exerted, and she spoke freely of her own troubles.
"You've no idea," she said, "what a misery my winter in England has been. I shall never look back on it without feeling that this is the most cruel place on earth."
"You mustn't judge the whole country from your own unfortunate experience," the Secretary hastened to interpose. "I've never found more true culture and refinement than I've met with here."
"Ah," she replied, "but when the Englishman is a brute – ! Since I came to this country, I've never written a word to my father that has not been read and – approved!" There was a wealth of scorn in her tones. "Not a word of my sorrows, of the indignities, the insults he had heaped upon me. Any attempt to post a letter on my own account, or to send it by a servant, has resulted in failure, and in the ignominy of having it opened, and destroyed in my presence. My income lies there in the bank. His brother is the banker. I had the choice of drawing cheques to my husband's order, or not drawing them at all."
"Were you then deprived of money? Surely, to keep up outside appearances, and I judge your husband would have desired that, you must have had an allowance?"
"I had unlimited credit in the town," she replied. "I could buy what I pleased and charge it, but not a shilling did I have wherewith to pay. It was my maid, my good Marie, who, when he threatened me with detention, gave me her little all, her savings, and told me to run away – ah, that was bitter! But I knew she meant no disrespect – I accepted it – she shall be repaid a hundred-fold."
"I think you need have no fears of not being restored to all your rights and privileges," he said, "and then?"
"Then I will be free."
"You mean you will procure a separation?"
"A divorce."
"But surely your husband – "
"Oh, he has not even constancy to commend him; he does not even conceal his preferences. He is always receiving letters from some woman – some old friend, he tells me – calling him to London for an hour, or a day, as the case may be, and no matter what plans I may have made, he goes."
"You know her name?"
"She signs her Christian name only – no wonder – but I have her letters and I'll find her out."
"And when you've found her, what then? Will you plead with her?"
"I?" she cried. "I, a De Costa, degrade myself by pleading with a woman of that class!"
The Secretary shrugged his shoulders.
"I think every woman," he said, "has some good in her, low as she may be, some spark of longing for better things, some element of self-respect that never quite dies out."
"You're right," she admitted. "A man is by nature a brute. A woman, even at her worst, is not quite that. Some extra spark of divinity seems to have been given her in compensation for her weakness."
"I believe no woman is wholly bad," said the Secretary. "The worst women of history have, at some moments in their lives, been very near redemption."
"I believe that is so," she replied.
"I am very glad to hear you say that. If you can still find charity in your heart for your own sex, surely I may believe, even in the face of my friends' hostile criticism."
"And is there a woman, whom you – shall we say, 'respect' enough to believe in – no matter what is said of her?"
"There is," he replied.
"Then be sure she has some virtues worthy of that respect. I can picture," she went on, "the woman whom you should marry. You must be, to her, an ideal, and she must live her life in terms of you. Gentle and refined, and knowing more of your home than of the world."
The Secretary sighed.
"These
