Well, well; he supposed Eugenie would give him some notion of the way things had gone.  As to her—­his charming, sweet-natured Eugenie!—­it comforted him to remember the touch of resolute and generally cheerful stoicism in her character.  If a hard thing had to be done, she would not only do it without flinching, but without avenging it on the bystanders afterwards.  A quality rare in women!

* * * * *

‘Papa!—­is the carriage there?’

It was her voice calling.  Lord Findon noticed with relief its even, silvery note.  The carriage was waiting, and in a few minutes she was seated beside him, and they were making their way eastwards through the sunset streets.

‘Dear?’ he said, with timid interrogation, laying his hand momentarily on hers.

Eugenie was looking out of window with her face turned away.

‘He was very—­kind,’ she said, rather deliberately.  ’Don’t let us talk about it, papa—­but wait—­and see!’

Lord Findon understood that she referred to Elsie Bligh—­that she had sown her seed, and must now let it germinate.

But herself—­what had it cost her?  And he knew well that he should never ask the question; and that, if he did, she would never answer it.

By the time they were threading the slums of Seven Dials, she was talking rather fast and flowingly of Fenwick.

‘You have brought the cheque, papa?’

‘I have my cheque-book.’

‘And you are quite certain about the pictures?’

‘Quite.’

‘It will be nice to make him happy,’ she said, softly.  ’His letters have been pretty doleful.’

‘What has he found to write about?’ exclaimed Lord Findon, wondering.

‘Himself, mostly!’ she laughed.  ’He likes rhetoric—­and he seems to have found out that I do too.  As I told you, he began with an apology—­and since then he writes about books and art—­and—­and the evils of aristocracy.’

’Bless my soul, what the deuce does he know about it!  And you answer him?’

‘Yes.  You see he writes extremely well—­and it amuses me.’

Privately, he thought that if she encouraged him beyond a very moderate point, Fenwick would soon become troublesome.  But whenever she pleaded that anything ‘amused’ her, he could never find a word to say.

Every now and then he watched her, furtively trying to pierce that grey veil in which she had wrapt herself.  To-morrow morning, he supposed, he should hear her step on the stairs, towards eight o’clock—­should hear it passing his door in going, and an hour later in coming back—­and should know that she had been to a little Ritualist church close by, where what Lady Findon called ‘fooleries’ went on, in the shape of ‘daily celebrations’ and ‘vestments’ and ‘reservation.’  How lightly she stepped; what a hidden act it was; never spoken of, except once, between him and her!  It puzzled him often; for he knew very well that Eugenie