And yet, now and again, when the rush and ostentation of their new life, with its monotony of dinners and dances—­so little like that which she had anticipated as the future lot of a painter’s wife—­had left her rather weary, a trifle sad, she had thought suddenly of her old friend Philip Rainham, and the thought had solaced her.  There is a sort of pleasure, even when one is married to the most amiable of husbands, and is getting quite old—­very nearly twenty—­in turning from time to time to a person who has known one in the very shortest of frocks, and whose intimate connection with chocolates and “treats” is among one’s earliest traditions.  She made no contrasts; and yet when occasionally on one of those afternoons—­there seemed to be so many of them—­when she was “at home,” when her bright, large drawing-room was fullest, and she was distracted to find herself confusing, amidst the clatter of teacups, dear Mrs. Henderson, who painted wild-flowers so cleverly, with dear Lady Lorimer, who was going on the stage, she looked up and saw Rainham hovering in the near distance, or sitting with his teacup balanced in one long white hand as he turned a politely tolerant ear to the small talk of a neighbour, she felt strangely rested.  Trouble or confusion might come, she told herself, and how suddenly all these charming people, who were so surprisingly alike, and whose names were so exasperatingly different, would disappear.  Dear Mrs. Henderson and dear Lady Lorimer, and that odious Mrs. Dollond—­what was she saying to Dick now which had to be spoken with an air of such exaggerated intimacy in so discreet an undertone?—­how swiftly they would all be gone, like the snows of last year!  Only Philip Rainham, she was sure, would be there still, a little older, perhaps, with the air of being a little more tired of things, but inwardly the same, unalterably loyal and certain.  The prospect was curiously sustaining, the more in that she had no tangible cause of uneasiness, was an extremely happy woman—­it was so that she would have most frequently described herself—­only growing at times a little weary of the fashionable tread-mill, and the daily routine of not particularly noble interests which it involved.  Catching his eyes sometimes, as he sat there, looking out idly, indifferently, upon it all—­this success which was the breath of life to Dick—­she found him somewhat admirable; disdainful, fastidious, reserved—­beneath his surface good-humour, his constant kindness, he could scarcely be a happy man.  In flashes of sudden gratitude, she would have been glad often to have done something for him, had there been anything in the world to do.  And then she laughed at herself for such a vain imagination.  Had it not been his proper charm all along that he was a man for whom one could do nothing? precisely, because he wanted nothing, was so genuinely indifferent to anything that life could offer?  And now all that was at an end; by his own confession he had finished it, admitting himself, with a frankness almost brutal, a man like other men, only with passions more sordid, and a temper more unscrupulous, in that he had ruined this wretched woman, whose coming there had left a trail of vileness over her own life.