line which had begun to display itself, not unattractively, between her eyebrows and the irregular curve of her brown hair.  She was growing very weary of it all, the distraction which she had sought, the forgetfulness of self which she had hoped to achieve, by living perpetually in a crowd.  Indeed, to such a point had she carried her endeavours, that Mrs. Lightmark’s beauty was already becoming a matter of almost public interest.  She was a person to be recognised and recorded by sharp-eyed journalists at the play-houses on “first nights”; her carriage-horses performed extensive nightly pilgrimages in the regions of Kensington and Mayfair; and she had made a reputation for her dressmaker.  And already she realized that her efforts to live outside herself were futile; moments like these must come, and the knowledge that, in spite of her countless friends and voluminous visiting list, she was alone.

Her mother?  Dick?  After all, they were only in the position of occupying somewhat exceptionally prominent places on the visiting-list.

As for her husband, after all these long months of married life, she could not say that she knew him.  She regarded him with a kind of admiration of his personal, social attractions, in which she recognised him as fully her equal, with a kind of envy of the genius, which she could not entirely comprehend, but which seemed to make him so vastly her superior.  And yet there was a shadow of doubt about it all:  there had been sinister flashes, illumining, dimly enough, depths which the marital intimacy still left unfathomed, making her wonder whether her husband’s candour might not mask something more terrible than forgotten follies, something that might prove a more real and irremovable barrier between them than even that indefinable want of a mutual horizon, of common ground upon which their traditions could unite themselves.

So long as Dick had remained cheerfully masterful, and picturesquely flamboyant, without even an occasional betrayal of the bitterness which makes the one attribute savour of insolence, and the other of oppression, his wife had regarded him as exactly fulfilling the part for which he had obviously been cast—­of a good-humoured, ornamental, domestic tyrant, to be openly obeyed and covertly coerced.  A husband who assisted her acquisition of social laurels; who gave her more money than she asked for; who designed for her the most elaborate and enviable dresses—­yes, her mother certainly had reasons for declaring him a paragon!  But still Eve was vaguely conscious of a defect, a shortcoming.  It was all very well so far as it went, but the prospect was by no means unbounded.  And, then, had he not also designed gowns for Mrs. Dollond, and succeeded (there was a sting in this) where success was somewhat more difficult of achievement?