“Ruth will ask you, of course,” the Marchioness said impatiently.  “I expect that she is waiting at your flat by now.  I want to know whether you are going to do it.”

The hand was again very close to his.  Again Wingrave contemplated the rings.

“I forgot that you were her friend, and are naturally anxious,” he remarked.

“I am not her friend,” the Marchioness answered, “and—­I do not wish you to help them.”

Wingrave was silent.  The hand was insistent, and he held it for a moment lightly, and then let it go.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said doubtfully.  “The Barringtons have been very hospitable to me.”

“Rubbish!” the Marchioness answered.  “You have done quite enough for them already.  Of course, you are a man—­and you must choose.  I am sure that you understand me.”

He rose to his feet.

“I must think this out,” he said.  “The Barringtons have a sort of claim on me.  I will let you know which way I decide.”

She stood close to him, and her hand fell upon his shoulder.

“You are not going!” she exclaimed.  “I have told them that I am at home to no one, and I thought that you would stay and entertain me.  Sit down again, Wingrave!”

“Sorry,” he answered, “I have a lot to do this afternoon.  I came directly I had your note; but I have had to keep some other people waiting.”

“You are going to see Lady Ruth!”

“Not that I know of,” he declared.  “I have heard nothing from her.  By the bye, I lost some money to you at bridge the other evening.  How much was it?  Do you remember?”

She looked at him for a second, and turned away.

“Do you really want to know?” she asked.

“If you please.  Put the amount down on a piece of paper, and then I sha’n’t forget it.”

She crossed the room to her desk, and returned with a folded envelope.  He stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket.

“I shall be at the opera tonight,” she said.  “Will you come there and tell me what—­which you decide?”

“With pleasure,” he answered, “if I can get away from a stupid dinner in time.”

She let him go reluctantly.  Afterwards she passed into her own room, and stood looking at herself in the pier glass.  Artists and the society papers called her the most beautiful woman in England; fashion had placed her upon such a pinnacle that men counted it a distinction to be seen speaking to her.  She dealt out her smiles and favors like Royalty itself; she had never once known a rebuff.  This afternoon she felt that she had received one.  Had she been too cold or too forward?  Perhaps she had underestimated the man himself.  She rang for her maid.

“Celeste,” she said, “I shall wear my new Paquin gown tonight at the opera, and my pearls.”

“Very good, your ladyship.”

“And I am going to lie down for an hour or two now.  Don’t let me be disturbed.  I want to look my best tonight.  You understand?”