Captain Fitzgerald did not appear all day, so the Sunday was composed of unadulterated Josiah.  But it was only when Theodora was alone at last late at night, and had opened wide her windows and again looked out on the moon, that a little cry of anguish escaped her, and she remembered she would see Hector to-morrow at the dinner-party.  See him casually, as the rest of the guests, and this is how it would be forever—­for ever and ever.

* * * * *

Lord Bracondale had passed what he termed a dog’s day.  He had gone racing, and there had met, and been bitterly reproached by, Esclarmonde de Chartres for his neglect.

Qu’est-ce qu’il a eu pour toute une semaine?

He had important business in England, he said, and was going off at once; but she would find the bracelet she had wished for waiting for her at her apartment, and so they parted friends.

He felt utterly revolted with all that part of his life.

He wanted nothing in the world but Theodora.  Theodora to worship and cherish and hold for his own.  And each hour that came made all else seem more empty and unmeaning.

Just before dinner he went into the widow’s sitting-room.  She was alone, Marie had said in the passage—­resting, she thought, but madame would certainly see milord.  She had given orders for him to be admitted should he come.

“Now sit down near me, beau jeune homme,” Mrs. McBride commanded from the depths of her sofa, where she was reclining, arrayed in exquisite billows of chiffon and lace.  “I have been expecting you.  It is not because I have been indulging in a little sentiment myself that my eyes are glued shut—­you have a great deal to confess—­and I hope we have not done too much harm between us.”

Hector wanted sympathy, and there was something in the widow’s directness which he felt would soothe him.  He knew her good heart.  He could speak freely to her, too, without being troubled by an over-delicacy of mauvaise honte, as he would have been with an Englishwoman.  It would not have seemed sacrilege to the widow to discuss with him—­who was a friend—­the finest and most tender sentiments of her own, or any one else’s, heart.  He drew up a bergere and kissed her hand.

“I have been behaving like a damned scoundrel,” he said.

“My gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. McBride, with a violent jerk into a sitting position.  “You don’t say—­”

Then, for the first time for many years, a deep scarlet blush overspread Hector’s face, even up to his forehead—­as he realized how she had read his speech—­how most people of the world would have read it.  He got up from his chair and walked to the window.

“Oh, good God!” he said, “I don’t mean that.”

The widow fell back into her pillows with a sigh of relief.

“I mean I have deliberately tried to make her unhappy, and I have succeeded—­and myself, too.”