“No man can know,” she interrupted, and she spread out her hands in pathetic forgiveness of an over-exacting world.  Her companion laughed brutally.  “You are rude!” she said and laughed too.  And then, “Tell me something new!”

“I met an admirer of yours to-day.”

“But that’s nothing new.”  She looked up at him with a plaintive reproach.

“I will begin again,” he replied submissively.  “I walked down the Mile-End road this morning to Sir John’s jute-factory.”

“You fail to interest me,” she said with some emphasis.

“I am so sorry.  Good-bye!”

“Mr. Dale!”

“Yes!”

“You may, if you like, go on with the first story.”

“There is only one.  It was in the Mile-End road I met the admirer—­Julian Fairholm.”

“Oh!” Lady Tamworth sat up and blushed.  However, Lady Tamworth blushed very readily.

“It was a queer incident,” Mr. Dale continued.  “I caught sight of a necktie in a little dusty shop-window near the Pavilion Theatre.  I had never seen anything like it in my life; it fairly fascinated me, seemed to dare me to buy it.”

The lady’s foot began to tap upon the carpet.  Mr. Dale stopped and leaned critically forward.

“Well!  Why don’t you go on?” she asked impatiently.

“It’s pretty,” he reflected aloud.

The foot disappeared demurely into the seclusion of petticoats.  “You exasperate me,” she remarked.  But her face hardly guaranteed her words.  “We were speaking of ties.”

“Ah, the tie wasn’t pretty.  It was of satin, bright yellow with blue spots.  And an idea struck me; yes, an idea!  Sir John’s election colours are yellow, his opponent’s blue.  So I thought the tie would make a tactful present, symbolical (do you see?) of the state of the parties in the constituency.”

He paused a second time.

“Well?”

“I went in and bought it.”

“Well?”

“Julian Fairholm sold it to me.”

Lady Tamworth stared at the speaker in pure perplexity.  Then all at once she understood and the blood eddied into her cheeks.  “I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed.

“His face would be difficult to mistake,” Mr. Dale objected.  “Besides I had time to assure myself, for I had to wait my turn.  When I entered the shop, he was serving a woman with baby-linen.  Oh yes!  Julian Fairholm sold me the tie.”

Lady Tamworth kept her eyes upon the ground.  Then she looked up.  She struck the arm of her chair with her closed fist and cried in a quick petulance, “How dare he?”

“Exactly what I thought,” answered her companion smoothly.  “The colours were crude by themselves, the combination was detestable.  And he an artist too!” Mr. Dale laughed pleasantly.

“Did he speak to you?”

“He asked me whether I would take a packet of pins instead of a farthing.”

“Ah, don’t,” she entreated, and rose from her chair.  It might have been her own degradation of which Mr. Dale was speaking.