He was the godfather of Lady Ermyntrude’s child; the hero and counsellor of the two sons, who were both in Parliament, and took his lead in many things; while there was no one with whom Lord Winterbourne could more comfortably discuss county or agricultural affairs.  In the old days Marcella had somehow tended to regard him as a man of few friends.  And in a sense it was so.  He did not easily yield himself; and was often thought dull and apathetic by strangers.  But here, amid these old companions, his delicacy and sweetness of disposition had full play; and although, now that Marcella was in their house, he came less often, and was less free with them than usual, she saw enough to make her wonder a little that they were all so kind and indulgent to her, seeing that they cared so much for him and all that affected him.

Well! she was often judged, humbled, reproached.  Yet there was a certain irritation in it.  Was it all her own fault that in her brief engagement she had realised him so little?  Her heart was sometimes oddly sore; her conscience full of smart; but there were moments when she was as combative as ever.

Nor had certain other experiences of this past fortnight been any more soothing to this sore craving sense of hers.  It appeared very soon that nothing would have been easier for her had she chosen than to become the lion of the later season.  The story of the Batton Street tragedy had, of course, got into the papers, and had been treated there with the usual adornments of the “New Journalism.”

The world which knew the Raeburns or knew of them—­comparatively a large world—­fell with avidity on the romantic juxtaposition of names.  To lose your betrothed as Aldous Raeburn had lost his, and then to come across her again in this manner and in these circumstances—­there was a dramatic neatness about it to which the careless Fate that governs us too seldom attains.  London discussed the story a good deal; and would have liked dearly to see and to exhibit the heroine.  Mrs. Lane in particular, the hostess of the House of Commons dinner, felt that she had claims, and was one of the first to call at Lady Winterbourne’s and see her guest.  She soon discovered that Marcella had no intention whatever of playing the lion; and must, in fact, avoid excitement and fatigue.  But she had succeeded in getting the girl to come to her once or twice of an afternoon to meet two or three people.  It was better for the wounded arm that its owner should walk than drive; and Mrs. Lane lived at a convenient distance, at a house in Piccadilly, just across the Green Park.

Here then, as in James Street, Marcella had met in discreet succession a few admiring and curious persons, and had tasted some of the smaller sweets of fame.  But the magnet that drew her to the Lanes’ house had been no craving for notoriety; at the present moment she was totally indifferent to what perhaps constitutionally she might have liked; the attraction had been simply the occasional presence there of Harry Wharton.  He excited, puzzled, angered, and commanded her more than ever.  She could not keep herself away from the chance of meeting him.  And Lady Winterbourne neither knew him, nor apparently wished to know him—­a fact which probably tended to make Marcella obstinate.