“You will scold me for a bitter tongue.  Well, my dear Wilfrid, I am not gay here.  There are too many women, too many church services, and I see too much of my doctor.  I pine for London, and I don’t see why I should have been driven out of it by an intrigante.

“Write to me, my dear Wilfrid.  I am not quite so bad as I paint myself; say to yourself she has arthritis, she is sixty-five, and her new companion reads aloud with a twang; then you will only wonder at my moderation.”

Sir Wilfrid returned the letter to his pocket.  That day, at luncheon with Lady Hubert, he had had the curiosity to question Susan Delafield, Jacob’s fair-haired sister, as to the reasons for her brother’s quarrel with Lady Henry.

It appeared that being now in receipt of what seemed to himself, at any rate, a large salary as his cousin’s agent, he had thought it his duty to save up and repay the sums which Lady Henry had formerly spent upon his education.

His letter enclosing the money had reached that lady during the first week of her stay at Torquay.  It was, no doubt, couched in terms less cordial or more formal than would have been the case before Miss Le Breton’s expulsion.  “Not that he defends her altogether,” said Susan Delafield, who was herself inclined to side with Lady Henry; “but as Lady Henry has refused to see him since, it was not much good being friendly, was it?”

Anyway, the letter and its enclosure had completed a breach already begun.  Lady Henry had taken furious offence; the check had been insultingly returned, and had now gone to swell the finances of a London hospital.

Sir Wilfrid was just reflecting that Jacob’s honesty had better have waited for a more propitious season, when, looking up, he saw the War Minister beside him, in the act of searching for a newspaper.

“Released?” said Bury, with a smile.

“Yes, thank Heaven.  Lackington is, I believe, still pounding at me in the House of Lords.  But that amuses him and doesn’t hurt me.”

“You’ll carry your resolutions?”

“Oh, dear, yes, with no trouble at all,” said the Minister, almost with sulkiness, as he threw himself into a chair and looked with distaste at the newspaper he had taken up.

Sir Wilfrid surveyed him.

“We meet to-night?” he said, presently.

“You mean in Heribert Street?  I suppose so,” said Montresor, without cordiality.

“I have just got a letter from her ladyship.”

“Well, I hope it is more agreeable than those she writes to me.  A more unreasonable old woman—­”

The tired Minister took up Punch, looked at a page, and flung it down again.  Then he said: 

“Are you going?”

“I don’t know.  Lady Henry gives me leave, which makes me feel myself a kind of spy.”

“Oh, never mind.  Come along.  Mademoiselle Julie will want all our support.  I don’t hear her as kindly spoken of just now as I should wish.”