“I didn’t want to come here,” he said at last, “but I was positively driven to it. . . .  Evelyn M.,” he groaned.

He sat up, and began to explain with mock solemnity how the detestable woman was set upon marrying him.

“She pursues me about the place.  This morning she appeared in the smoking-room.  All I could do was to seize my hat and fly.  I didn’t want to come, but I couldn’t stay and face another meal with her.”

“Well, we must make the best of it,” Helen replied philosophically.  It was very hot, and they were indifferent to any amount of silence, so that they lay back in their chairs waiting for something to happen.  The bell rang for luncheon, but there was no sound of movement in the house.  Was there any news?  Helen asked; anything in the papers?  St. John shook his head.  O yes, he had a letter from home, a letter from his mother, describing the suicide of the parlour-maid.  She was called Susan Jane, and she came into the kitchen one afternoon, and said that she wanted cook to keep her money for her; she had twenty pounds in gold.  Then she went out to buy herself a hat.  She came in at half-past five and said that she had taken poison.  They had only just time to get her into bed and call a doctor before she died.

“Well?” Helen enquired.

“There’ll have to be an inquest,” said St. John.

Why had she done it?  He shrugged his shoulders.  Why do people kill themselves?  Why do the lower orders do any of the things they do do?  Nobody knows.  They sat in silence.

“The bell’s run fifteen minutes and they’re not down,” said Helen at length.

When they appeared, St. John explained why it had been necessary for him to come to luncheon.  He imitated Evelyn’s enthusiastic tone as she confronted him in the smoking-room.  “She thinks there can be nothing quite so thrilling as mathematics, so I’ve lent her a large work in two volumes.  It’ll be interesting to see what she makes of it.”

Rachel could now afford to laugh at him.  She reminded him of Gibbon; she had the first volume somewhere still; if he were undertaking the education of Evelyn, that surely was the test; or she had heard that Burke, upon the American Rebellion—­Evelyn ought to read them both simultaneously.  When St. John had disposed of her argument and had satisfied his hunger, he proceeded to tell them that the hotel was seething with scandals, some of the most appalling kind, which had happened in their absence; he was indeed much given to the study of his kind.

“Evelyn M., for example—­but that was told me in confidence.”

“Nonsense!” Terence interposed.

“You’ve heard about poor Sinclair, too?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about Sinclair.  He’s retired to his mine with a revolver.  He writes to Evelyn daily that he’s thinking of committing suicide.  I’ve assured her that he’s never been so happy in his life, and, on the whole, she’s inclined to agree with me.”