Then there was a postscript:  “Mary suggests that possibly you are not so incomprehensible as I think; perhaps you are at Bordighera?  But you ought to let us know.”

Rainham sat with the letter before him until Margot came to bid him good-night.  And then he decided to take advantage of the suggestion of the postscript:  surely, if he did not answer the dear old lady’s letter, she would conclude that he was indeed upon his travels.

CHAPTER XXVI

If Eve could have mended her idol discreetly and permanently, so that for the outward world it would still present the same uncompromising surface, so that no inquisitive or bungling touch could bring to light the grim, disfiguring fracture which it had sustained, it is probable that she would have chosen this part, and hidden the grief of her life from the eyes of all save those who were so inseparably connected with the tragedy of that autumnal afternoon.  But it was so completely shattered, the pieces were so many; and, worst of all, some of them were lost.  To forget!  What a world of bitter irony was in the word!  And she could not even bury her illusions quietly and unobserved of uncharitable eyes; there was the sordid necessity of explanation to be faced, the lame pretexts to be fashioned, and the half-truths to be uttered, which bore an interpretation so far more damning than the full measure which it seemed so hard to give.

Mrs. Sylvester, whose jealous maternal instincts continued to be on the alert hardly less keenly after her daughter’s marriage than before, had soon detected something of oppression in the atmosphere; an explanation had been demanded, and the story, magnified somewhat in its least attractive features by Eve’s natural reticence, had gone to swell the volume of similar experiences recorded in Mrs. Sylvester’s brain.  That she felt a genuine sorrow for Rainham is certain, for the grain of her nature was kindly enough beneath its veneer of worldly cleverness; but her grief was more than tempered by a sense of self-congratulation, of unlimited approval of the prudence which had enabled her to marry her daughter so irreproachably before the bubble burst.  Indeed, the little glow of pride which mingled quite harmoniously with her nevertheless perfectly sincere regret, was an almost visible element in her moral atmosphere, as she emerged from the door of her daughter’s house after this momentous interview, drawing her furs about her with a little shiver before she stepped into her well-appointed brougham.  She had the air of saying to herself, “Dear me, dear, dear! it’s very sad, it’s very terrible; but I! how clever I have been, and how beautifully I behaved!” There was nothing particularly novel from her point of view in the story which she had just extracted from her reluctant daughter; the situation called for an edifying, comfortable sorrow, but by no means for surprise.  It was what might have been expected—­though this (which was somewhat hard) did not render the episode any the less reprehensible.