Marsham made no reply.  Was it his silence that evoked in the mind of Sir James the figure which already held the mind of his companion?—­the figure of Lady Lucy?  He paced up and down, with the image before him—­the spare form, resolutely erect, the delicate resolution of the face, the prim perfection of the dress, judged by the Quakerish standard of its owner.  Lady Lucy almost always wore gloves—­white or gray.  In Sir James’s mind the remembrance of them took a symbolic importance.  What use in expecting the wearer of them to handle the blood and mire of Juliet Sparling’s story with breadth and pity?

“Look here!” he said, coming to a sudden stop.  “Let us decide at once on what is to be done.  You said nothing to Miss Mallory?”

“Nothing.  But she is already in some trouble and misgiving about the past.  She is in the mood to inquire; she has been, I think, for some time.  And, naturally, she wishes to hide nothing from me.”

“She will write to Riley & Bonner,” said Sir James, quietly.  “She will probably write to-night.  They may take steps to acquaint her with her history—­or they may not.  It depends.  Meanwhile, who else is likely to know anything about the engagement?”

“Diana was to tell Mrs. Colwood—­her companion; no one else.”

“Nice little woman!—­all right there!  But”—­Sir James gave a slight start—­“what about the cousin?”

“Miss Merton?  Oh no!  There is clearly no sympathy between her and Diana.  How could there be?”

“Yes—­but my dear fellow!—­that girl knows—­must know—­everything there is to know!  And she dislikes Diana; she is jealous of her; that I saw quite plainly this afternoon.  And, moreover, she is probably quite well informed about you and your intentions.  She gossiped half through lunch with that ill-bred fellow Birch.  I heard your name once or twice.  Oh!—­and by-the-way!”—­Sir James turned sharply on his heel—­“what was she confabulating about with Miss Drake all that time in the garden?  Did they know each other before?”

Marsham replied in the negative.  But he, too, was disagreeably arrested by the recollection of the two girls walking together, and of the intimacy and animation of their talk.  And he could recall what Sir James had not seen—­the strangeness of Alicia’s manner, and the peremptoriness with which she had endeavored to carry him home with her.  Had she—­after hearing the story—­tried to interrupt or postpone the crucial scene with Diana?  That seemed to him the probable explanation, and the idea roused in him a hot and impotent anger.  What business was it of hers?

“H’m!” said Sir James.  “You may be sure that Miss Drake is now in the secret.  She was very discreet on the way home.  But she will take sides; and not, I think, with us.  She seems to have a good deal of influence with your mother.”

Marsham reluctantly admitted it.

“My sister, too, will be hostile.  Don’t let’s forget that.”