Marsham, thereupon, had become conscious of a wind of unpopularity blowing through his constituency.  Some of the nice women of the neighborhood, with whom he had been always hitherto a welcome and desired guest, had begun to neglect him; men who would never have dreamed of allowing their own sons to marry a girl in Diana’s position, greeted him with a shade less consideration than usual; and the Liberal agent in the division had suddenly ceased to clamor for his attendance and speeches at rural meetings.  There could be no question that by some means or other the story had got abroad—­no doubt in a most inaccurate and unjust form—­and was doing harm.

Reflections of this kind were passing through his mind as he crossed Hyde Park Corner on his way to Eaton Square.  Opposite St. George’s Hospital he suddenly became aware of Sir James Chide on the other side of the road.  At sight of him, Marsham waved his hand, quickening his pace that he might come up with him.  Sir James, seeing him, gave him a perfunctory greeting, and suddenly turned aside to hail a hansom, into which he jumped, and was carried promptly out of sight.

Marsham was conscious of a sudden heat in the face.  He had never yet been so sharply reminded of a changed relation.  After Diana’s departure he had himself written to Chide, defending his own share in the matter, speaking bitterly of the action taken by his mother and sister, and lamenting that Diana had not been willing to adopt the waiting and temporizing policy, which alone offered any hope of subduing his mother’s opposition.  Marsham declared—­persuading himself, as he wrote, of the complete truth of the statement—­that he had been quite willing to relinquish his father’s inheritance for Diana’s sake, and that it was her own action alone that had separated them.  Sir James had rather coldly acknowledged the letter, with the remark that few words were best on a subject so painful; and since then there had been no intimacy between the two men.  Marsham could only think with discomfort of the scene at Felton Park, when a man of passionate nature and romantic heart had allowed him access to the most sacred and tragic memories of his life.  Sir James felt, he supposed, that he had been cheated out of his confidence—­cheated out of his sympathy.  Well!—­it was unjust!

* * * * *

He reached Eaton Square in good time for dinner, and found his mother in the drawing-room.

“You look tired, Oliver,” she said, as he kissed her.

“It’s the east wind, I suppose—­beastly day!”

Lady Lucy surveyed him, as he stood, moody and physically chilled, with his back to the fire.

“Was the debate interesting?”

“Ferrier made a very disappointing speech.  All our fellows are getting restive.”

Lady Lucy looked astonished.

“Surely they ought to trust his judgment!  He has done so splendidly for the party.”