“Hubert Delafield was never happy, that I can remember,” thought Wilfrid Bury, as he sat over his fire, “and this chap has the same expression.  That woman in Bruton Street would never do for him—­apart from all the other unsuitability.  He ought to find something sweet and restful.  And yet I don’t know.  The Delafields are a discontented lot.  If you plague them, they are inclined to love you.  They want something hard to get their teeth in.  How the old Duke adored his termagant of a wife!”

* * * * *

It was late on Sunday afternoon before Sir Wilfrid was able to present himself in Lady Henry’s drawing-room; and when he arrived there, he found plenty of other people in possession, and had to wait for his chance.

Lady Henry received him with a brusque “At last,” which, however, he took with equanimity.  He was in no sense behind his time.  On Thursday, when parting with her, he had pleaded for deliberation.  “Let me study the situation a little; and don’t, for Heaven’s sake, let’s be too tragic about the whole thing.”

Whether Lady Henry was now in the tragic mood or no, he could not at first determine.  She was no longer confined to the inner shrine of the back drawing-room.  Her chair was placed in the large room, and she was the centre of a lively group of callers who were discussing the events of the week in Parliament, with the light and mordant zest of people well acquainted with the personalities they were talking of.  She was apparently better in health, he noticed; at any rate, she was more at ease, and enjoying herself more than on the previous Wednesday.  All her social characteristics were in full play; the blunt and careless freedom which made her the good comrade of the men she talked with—­as good a brain and as hard a hitter as they—­mingled with the occasional sally or caprice which showed her very much a woman.

Very few other women were there.  Lady Henry did not want women on Sundays, and was at no pains whatever to hide the fact.  But Mademoiselle Julie was at the tea-table, supported by an old white-haired general, in whom Sir Wilfrid recognized a man recently promoted to one of the higher posts in the War Office.  Tea, however, had been served, and Mademoiselle Le Breton was now showing her companion a portfolio of photographs, on which the old man was holding forth.

“Am I too late for a cup?” said Sir Wilfrid, after she had greeted him with cordiality.  “And what are those pictures?”

“They are some photos of the Khaibar and Tirah,” said Mademoiselle Le Breton.  “Captain Warkworth brought them to show Lady Henry.”

“Ah, the scene of his exploits,” said Sir Wilfrid, after a glance at them.  “The young man distinguished himself, I understand?”

“Oh, very much so,” said General M’Gill, with emphasis.  “He showed brains, and he had luck.”

“A great deal of luck, I hear,” said Sir Wilfrid, accepting a piece of cake.  “He’ll get his step up, I suppose.  Anything else?”