It was Lord Evelyn who laughed now, with his high, scornful titter.

“You and your sorrow!  I’ve no doubt your brother will be sorry too, when he hears the news.  I may tell you that he’ll have very good reason to be....  Yes, by all means go now—­unless you’d like to stay and dine, which I fancy would be carrying the joke too far even for you....  Will you stay one moment, though?  There’s a little ceremony to be performed.”

He crossed the room, and took the Sienese chalice between his hands, holding it gingerly for a moment as if it had been some unclean thing; then he dashed it on to the marble floor and it lay in splinters about his feet.  He took up the pair of vases next it, one in each hand (they happened to be of great value), and threw them too among the splinters; he had cleared the shelf of all its brittle objects before Leslie, who had sat motionless in the background until now, rose and laid a heavy hand on his arm.

“My dear sir,” said Leslie tranquilly, “don’t be melodramatic.  And don’t give the servants so much trouble and possible injury when they do the room to-morrow.  If you want to part with your goods, may I ask to be allowed to inspect them with a view to purchase?  Some of them, as you are no doubt aware, are of considerable intrinsic value, and I should be happy to be allowed to buy.”

Lord Evelyn looked at the man of commerce with distant contempt.

“As you please, sir.  I’ve no doubt that Mr. Peter Margerison will be equally happy to give you his valuable advice in the business.  He is your counsellor in these matters, isn’t he.  An excellent adviser, of sound judgment and most disinterested honesty!”

He bowed to Peter, who took it as a dismissal, and said “Good night.”

Denis, at the opposite side of the room, nodded in his casual way, neither hostile nor friendly, but gentle and indifferent.  You couldn’t make Denis seem angry, or hurt, or agitated in any way whatever.  He had always the air of reserving his opinion; and he extremely disliked scenes.  To be present at this one must have been painful to him.  Peter, who knew him so well, knew that.  He liked things to go easily and smoothly always.  He had winced at the crash of glass on marble; it seemed to him in such bad taste.  This, no doubt, was his attitude towards the whole business; towards the Magerisons’ behaviour, Cheriton’s exposure of it, and this final naked, shameful scene of accusation and confession.

Peter was realising this as he put on his coat in the hall, when the door he had shut behind him was opened, and steps followed him.  He started and faced round, a hope leaping in his face.  The swift dying of it left him rather pale.

Leslie said, “I’m coming too.”

It was good of Leslie, thought Peter dully, and not caring in the least.  He said, “No, stay and dine.  Really, I’d like you to....  We’ll talk to-morrow.”

Leslie put on his overcoat and said to the footman, “Call a gondola,” and the footman stood on the steps and cried “Poppe” till a poppe came; then they swung away down a rose-flushed water-street with the after-glow in their eyes.