to success.  It was a long time since Ralph had allowed himself to think of her, and as he did so the overwhelming fact of her beauty became present to him again, no longer as an element of his being but as a power dispassionately estimated.  He said to himself:  “Any man who can feel at all will feel it as I did”; and the conviction grew in him that Raymond de Chelles, of whom he had formed an idea through Bowen’s talk, was not the man to give her up, even if she failed to obtain the release his religion exacted.

Meanwhile Ralph was gradually beginning to feel himself freer and lighter.  Undine’s act, by cutting the last link between them, seemed to have given him back to himself; and the mere fact that he could consider his case in all its bearings, impartially and ironically, showed him the distance he had travelled, the extent to which he had renewed himself.  He had been moved, too, by Clare’s cry of joy at his release.  Though the nature of his feeling for her had not changed he was aware of a new quality in their friendship.  When he went back to his book again his sense of power had lost its asperity, and the spectacle of life seemed less like a witless dangling of limp dolls.  He was well on in his second chapter now.

This lightness of mood was still on him when, returning one afternoon to Washington Square, full of projects for a long evening’s work, he found his mother awaiting him with a strange face.  He followed her into the drawing-room, and she explained that there had been a telephone message she didn’t understand—­something perfectly crazy about Paul—­of course it was all a mistake...

Ralph’s first thought was of an accident, and his heart contracted.  “Did Laura telephone?”

“No, no; not Laura.  It seemed to be a message from Mrs. Spragg:  something about sending some one here to fetch him—­a queer name like Heeny—­to fetch him to a steamer on Saturday.  I was to be sure to have his things packed...but of course it’s a misunderstanding...”  She gave an uncertain laugh, and looked up at Ralph as though entreating him to return the reassurance she had given him.

“Of course, of course,” he echoed.

He made his mother repeat her statement; but the unforeseen always flurried her, and she was confused and inaccurate.  She didn’t actually know who had telephoned:  the voice hadn’t sounded like Mrs. Spragg’s...  A woman’s voice; yes—­oh, not a lady’s!  And there was certainly something about a steamer...but he knew how the telephone bewildered her...and she was sure she was getting a little deaf.  Hadn’t he better call up the Malibran?  Of course it was all a mistake—­but... well, perhaps he had better go there himself...

As he reached the front door a letter clinked in the box, and he saw his name on an ordinary looking business envelope.  He turned the door-handle, paused again, and stooped to take out the letter.  It bore the address of the firm of lawyers who had represented Undine in the divorce proceedings and as he tore open the envelope Paul’s name started out at him.