I even before he quitted me asked him to promise me this.  “All right, I promise”—­but he was gloomy enough.  He was a lover facing the fact that there was no limit to the deceit his loved one was ready to practise:  it made so remarkably little difference.  I could see by what a stretch his passionate pity would from this moment overlook the girl’s fatuity and folly.  She was always accessible to him—­that I knew; for if she had told him he was an idiot to dream she could dream of him, she would have rebuked the imputation of having failed to make it clear that she would always be glad to regard him as a friend.  What were most of her friends—­what were all of them—­but repudiated idiots?  I was perfectly aware that in her conversations and confidences I myself for instance had a niche in the gallery.  As regards poor Dawling I knew how often he still called on the Hammond Synges.  It was not there but under the wing of the Floyd-Taylors that her intimacy with Lord Iffield most flourished.  At all events, when a week after the visit I have just summarised Flora’s name was one morning brought up to me, I jumped at the conclusion that Dawling had been with her, and even I fear briefly entertained the thought that he had broken his word.

CHAPTER IX

She left me, after she had been introduced, in no suspense about her present motive; she was on the contrary in a visible fever to enlighten me; but I promptly learned that for the alarm with which she pitiably panted our young man was not accountable.  She had but one thought in the world, and that thought was for Lord Iffield.  I had the strangest saddest scene with her, and if it did me no other good it at least made me at last completely understand why insidiously, from the first, she had struck me as a creature of tragedy.  In showing me the whole of her folly it lifted the curtain of her misery.  I don’t know how much she meant to tell me when she came—­I think she had had plans of elaborate misrepresentation; at any rate she found it at the end of ten minutes the simplest way to break down and sob, to be wretched and true.  When she had once begun to let herself go the movement took her off her feet; the relief of it was like the cessation of a cramp.  She shared in a word her long secret, she shifted her sharp pain.  She brought, I confess, tears to my own eyes, tears of helpless tenderness for her helpless poverty.  Her visit however was not quite so memorable in itself as in some of its consequences, the most immediate of which was that I went that afternoon to see Geoffrey Dawling, who had in those days rooms in Welbeck Street, where I presented myself at an hour late enough to warrant the supposition that he might have come in.  He had not come in, but he was expected, and I was invited to enter and wait for him:  a lady, I was informed, was already in his sitting-room.  I hesitated, a little at a loss:  it had wildly coursed through my brain that the lady was perhaps Flora Saunt.  But when I asked if she were young and remarkably pretty I received so significant a “No sir!” that I risked an advance and after a minute in this manner found myself, to my astonishment, face to face with Mrs. Meldrum.