in her diet, too little exercise.  She thought she coughed with the greatest discretion but to the jarred nerves of her husband a few hearty bellows or an asthmatic wheeze would have been preferable to the fidgety, marmoset-like sounds that came from under a lace handkerchief.  Sometimes he would raise his eyes to speak sharply; but at the sight of the mild gaze that met his, the perfect belief that she was a soothing presence in this room of hard thinking and close writing—­this superb room with its unrivalled library that he owed to the use of her wealth, his angry look would soften and he would return smile for smile.

Linda though a trifle fretful on occasion, especially with servants, a little petulant and huffy with a sense of her own dignity and importance as a rich woman, was completely happy in her marriage.  She had never regretted it for one hour, never swerved from the conviction that she and Michael were a perfect match—­he, tall, stalwart, black-haired and strong; she “petite”—­she loved the French adjective ever since it had been applied to her at Scarborough by a sycophantic governess—­petite—­she would repeat, blonde, plump, or better still “potelee” (the governess had later suggested, when she came to tea and hoped to be asked to stay) potelee, blue-eyed and pink-cheeked.  Dresden china and all the stale similes applied to a type of little woman of whom the modern world has grown intolerant.

It was therefore into this milieu that David found himself introduced one Thursday at the end of November, 1901.  He had walked the short distance from Great Portland Street station.  It was a fine day with a red sunset, and a lemon-coloured, thin moon-crescent above the sunset.  The trees and bushes of Park Crescent were a background of dull blue haze.  The surface of the broad roads was dry and polished, so his neat, patent-leather boots would still be fit for drawing-room carpets.

A footman in a very plain livery—­here Michael was firm—­opened the massive door.  David passed between some statuary of too frank a style for Linda’s modest taste and was taken over by a butler of severe aspect who announced him into the great drawing-room as Mr. David Williams.

He recognized Rossiter at once, standing up with a tea-cup and saucer, and presumed that a fluffy, much be-furbelowed little lady at the main tea-table was Mrs. Rossiter, since she wore no hat.  There was besides a rather alarming concourse of men and women of the world as he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Mrs. Rossiter for his immediate goal.

Rossiter met him half-way, shook hands cordially and introduced him to his wife who bowed with one of her “sweet” looks.  For the moment David did not interest her.  She was much more interested in trying to give an impression of profundity to Lady Feenix who was commenting on the professor’s discoveries of the strange properties of the thyroid gland.  A few introductions were effected—­Lady