“I don’t think so.  I write him such charming letters.  It is all simmering down beautifully.”

Marsham moved restlessly to and fro, first putting down a lamp, then fidgeting with an evening paper.  Alicia never failed to stir in him the instinct of sex, in its combative and critical form; and hostile as he believed he was to her, her advent had certainly shaken him out of his depression.

She meanwhile watched him with her teasing eyes, apparently enjoying his disapproval.

“I know exactly what you are thinking,” she said, presently.

“I doubt it.”

“Heartless coquette!” she said, mimicking his voice.  “Never mind—­her turn will come presently!”

“You don’t allow my thoughts much originality.”

“Why should I?  Confess!—­you did think that?”

Her small white teeth flashed in the smile she gave him.  There was an exuberance of life and spirits about her that was rather disarming.  But he did not mean to be disarmed.

“I did not think anything of the kind,” he said, returning to the fire and looking down upon her; “simply because I know you too well.”

Alicia reddened a little.  It was one of her attractions that she flushed so easily.

“Because you know me too well?” she repeated.  “Let me see.  That means that you don’t believe my turn will ever come?”

Marsham smiled.

“Your turn for what?” he said, dryly.

“I think we are getting mixed up!” Her laugh was as musical as he remembered it.  “Let’s begin again.  Ah! here comes Cousin Lucy!”

Lady Lucy entered, ushering in an elderly relation, a Miss Falloden, dwelling also in Eaton Square:  a comfortable lady with a comfortable income; a social stopper of chinks, moreover, kind and talkative; who was always welcome on occasions when life was not too strenuous or the company too critical.  Marsham offered her his arm, and the little party made its way to the dining-room.

* * * * *

“Do you go back to the House, Oliver, to-night?” asked his mother, as the entree went round.

He replied in the affirmative, and resumed his conversation with Alicia.  She was teasing him on the subject of some of his Labor friends in the House of Commons.  It appeared that she had made the Curate, who was a Christian Socialist, take her to a Labor Conference at Bristol, where all the leaders were present, and her account of the proceedings and the types was both amusing and malicious.  It was the first time that Marsham had known her attempt any conversation of the kind, and he recognized that her cleverness was developing.  But many of the remarks she made on persons well known to him annoyed him extremely, and he could not help trying to punish her for them.  Alicia, however, was not easily punished.  She evaded him with a mosquito-like quickness, returning to the charge as soon as he imagined himself to have scored with an irrelevance or an absurdity which would have been exasperating in a man, but had somehow to be answered and politely handled from a woman.  He lost his footing continually; and as she had none to lose, she had, on the whole, the best of it.