No!  Lady Jane was accustomed to leave a favorable impression behind her wherever she went.  It was a habit with her to be charming (in widely different ways) to both sexes.  The social experience of the upper classes is, in England, an experience of universal welcome.  Lady Jane declined to leave until she had thawed the icy reception of the lady of the house.

“I must repeat my apologies,” she said to Mrs. Vanborough, “for coming at this inconvenient time.  My intrusion appears to have sadly disturbed the two gentlemen.  Mr. Vanborough looks as if he wished me a hundred miles away.  And as for your husband—­” She stopped and glanced toward Mr. Delamayn.  “Pardon me for speaking in that familiar way.  I have not the pleasure of knowing your husband’s name.”

In speechless amazement Mrs. Vanborough’s eyes followed the direction of Lady Jane’s eyes—­and rested on the lawyer, personally a total stranger to her.

Mr. Delamayn, resolutely waiting his opportunity to speak, seized it once more—­and held it this time.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.  “There is some misapprehension here, for which I am in no way responsible.  I am not that lady’s husband.”

It was Lady Jane’s turn to be astonished.  She looked at the lawyer.  Useless!  Mr. Delamayn had set himself right—­Mr. Delamayn declined to interfere further.  He silently took a chair at the other end of the room.  Lady Jane addressed Mr. Vanborough.

“Whatever the mistake may be,” she said, “you are responsible for it.  You certainly told me this lady was your friend’s wife.”

“What!!!” cried Mrs. Vanborough—­loudly, sternly, incredulously.

The inbred pride of the great lady began to appear behind the thin outer veil of politeness that covered it.

“I will speak louder if you wish it,” she said.  “Mr. Vanborough told me you were that gentleman’s wife.”

Mr. Vanborough whispered fiercely to his wife through his clenched teeth.

“The whole thing is a mistake.  Go into the garden again!”

Mrs. Vanborough’s indignation was suspended for the moment in dread, as she saw the passion and the terror struggling in her husband’s face.

“How you look at me!” she said.  “How you speak to me!”

He only repeated, “Go into the garden!”

Lady Jane began to perceive, what the lawyer had discovered some minutes previously—­that there was something wrong in the villa at Hampstead.  The lady of the house was a lady in an anomalous position of some kind.  And as the house, to all appearance, belonged to Mr. Vanborough’s friend, Mr. Vanborough’s friend must (in spite of his recent disclaimer) be in some way responsible for it.  Arriving, naturally enough, at this erroneous conclusion, Lady Jane’s eyes rested for an instant on Mrs. Vanborough with a finely contemptuous expression of inquiry which would have roused the spirit of the tamest woman in existence.  The implied insult stung the wife’s sensitive nature to the quick.  She turned once more to her husband—­this time without flinching.