Reggie persisted in talking to Viola like a well-bred stranger.  He persisted in ignoring Jevons.

And Jimmy retaliated by ignoring him.  There was nothing else for him to do.  Only it wasn’t one of the things he did well.  Beside Reggie’s accomplishment he looked mean and pitiful and a little vulgar.  God forgive me for putting it down, but that is how he looked.

And once or twice, under the strain of it, he dropped an aitch with the most disconcerting effect.

I often wonder what Pavitt thought of that family party.  He certainly served Viola as if he loved her, and Jimmy as if he was sorry for him, calling his attention to a dish or a wine which, he seemed to say, it would be a pity for him to miss—­it might prove a consolation to him.

Our agony became so unbearable that the women ended it when they could by leaving us at the stage of coffee and cigarettes.  Then, with us three men the position became untenable, and Reggie found that he’d have to go out at nine; he had an appointment with a fellow.  And at nine he went.

Viola and Jimmy left us very soon after.

She said, “It was dear of you to have us,” not in the least humbly, but as if they had enjoyed it.

Up to the very last she was magnificent, and even Jimmy played up well.  In fact, when Reggie’s perfection was no longer there to damage him he was rather fine.

It was poor little Norah who broke down.  I found her crying all by herself on the couch in my study when they’d gone.

She said, “Wally, this is awful.  It’s the most awful thing that could have happened.”

I said, “Oh, come—­” and she persisted.  “But it is.  She adored Reggie.  He used to adore her—­and—­you’ve seen him, how he was to-night.  It’ll kill her if he keeps it up.”

I said, “He won’t keep it up.”

“Oh, won’t he!  You don’t know Reggie.”

I said, “It’s odd.  He didn’t seem to mind Jimmy so much the first day he met him.”

“Oh, my dear—­he didn’t mind, because he never could have dreamed she’d marry him.”

“He’ll come round all right when he knows him,” I said.

She shook her head and made little dabs at her face with her pocket-handkerchief.

“That’s just it.  He thinks he does know him.  I mean he thinks he knows something.  I’m sure he thinks it.”

“My dear child, however could he?  He couldn’t even have heard.  If you mean that Belgian business, it was all over and done with four years ago.  Have we any of us thought of it since?”

“No—­but I think he had an idea then.  He guessed that there must be something.  You see—­we never told Vee-Vee, but—­he thought it was awfully queer of her to go off—­anywhere—­just when he was sailing.”

“Well,” I said, “it was a bit odd.  She must have been awfully gone on Jimmy.”

“She was.”

“Poor dear.  She said she meant to burn her boats.”