An angry impotence seized Jasper Penny.  He was tempted to have Stephen Jannan turn over to Essie, at once, a conclusive sum of money.  That would put an end to any communication between them, provide her with the power of self-gratification which for Essie Scofield spelled forgetfulness....  For a little, he was obliged, wearily, to add.  Together with such a young man as he had seen in her house her capacity for expenditure would be limitless.  She would come back to him with fresh demands, perhaps at an inconceivably awkward time, in a calculated hysteria—­he had cause to know—­surprisingly loud and convincing.  Susan must be absolutely secured against that possibility.  He could not help but think of the latter as yielding in the end, married to him.

He gazed at Stephen Jannan in a sombre perplexity.  “A nuisance,” the other nodded.  “Only time, I suppose, and the most rigid adherence to your statements will convince the lady of what she may expect.  In the meanwhile, frankly, we had better put it in some other hands; not so much on my account as your own—­the sympathetic young gentlemen, you see.  That can be easily arranged.”

Jasper Penny was not thinking of the material Essie, the present, concrete problem; but he was once more absorbed in the manner in which her influence followed, apparently shaped, his existence.  He was again appalled by the vitality of the past; the phrase itself was an error, there was no past.  All that had gone, that was to come, met ceaselessly in the present, a confusion of hope and regret.  It was evident that he would have to see Essie again, and explain that what she had from him depended entirely on her reciprocal attitude.  This could only be satisfactory in person.  He would go to her at once, to-day.  An enormous reluctance to enter her house again possessed him.  The mere act had the aspect of an acknowledgment of her continued potency, her influence over him.  He put it off as long as possible, and it was past five when he finally walked slowly toward her door.

She was in; and he saw, on the hall stand, a silk hat and overcoat cut in an extreme of current fashion.  The servant preceded him above, toward the room usual for casual gatherings; and he heard a sudden low murmur, expostulation, follow the announcement of his name.  Essie Scofield appeared at the top of the stairs.  “Come up,” she said in a hesitating, sullen voice.  He mounted without reply.  As he had expected Daniel Culser was present, and rose to greet him negligently, from a lounging attitude on the sofa.  His coat, cut back to the knees, was relentlessly tapered, the collar enormously rolled and revered, and a white Marseilles waistcoat bore black spots as large as a Bolivian half dollar; while a black scarf, it was called the Du Casses, fell in an avalanche of ruffles.  He moved toward the door, fitting his coat carefully about his slim waist, “I’m away, Essie,” he proclaimed.