The first words which Rainham spoke recalled to Oswyn the powerful reason which had determined him to preserve his old neutrality, and to make an offering of silence upon the altar of his regard for the only man with whom he could feel that he had something in common.  If his vengeance could have vented itself upon a single victim, it would have fallen, strong and sure; but it was clear to his calmer self that this could not be; the consequences would be too far-reaching, and might even recoil upon himself.  After all, what did it matter?  There was a certain luxury in submission to injustice, a pleasure in watching the bolt of Nemesis descend when his hands were guiltless of the launching.  And as he struggled with himself, hunting in retrospect for some excuse for what his passion railed at as weakness, a last straw fell into the scale, for he thought of the faded portrait in the cigarette-case.

CHAPTER XIX

“My dear,” said Lady Garnett, accepting a cup of tea from the hands of her niece, and regarding her at the same time, from her low cushioned chair, with a certain drollery, “do you know that it is exactly one week since Mr. Sylvester called?”

Mary Masters’ head was bent a little over her long Suede gloves—­they had just returned from their afternoon drive in the Park—­and she paused to remove her hat and veil before she replied.

“And it is at least three weeks since Mr. Rainham was here.”

“Ah, poor Philip!” remarked the old lady, “he is always irregular; he may come, or he may not.  I must ask him to dinner, by the way, soon.  But I was talking of Mr. Sylvester, who is a model of punctuality. (Give me a piece of baba for Mefistofele, please!) Mr. Sylvester was here last Saturday, and the Saturday before that.  I think it is highly probable, Mary, that we shall be honoured with a visit from Mr. Sylvester to-day.”

“I hope not!” said the girl with some energy.  “I have a couple of songs that I must positively try over before to-night.  Surely, it is a little late too, even for Mr. Sylvester.”

“It is barely half-past five,” said Lady Garnett, lazily feeding her pug, “and he knows that we do not dine till eight.  Resign yourself, cherie; he will certainly come.”

She glanced across at the young girl, pointing, with her keen gaze, words which seemed trivial enough.  And Mary, her calm forehead puckered with a certain vague annoyance which she disdained to analyse, understood perfectly all that the elder lady was too discreet to say.  She sat for a little while, her hands resting idly in her lap, or smoothing the creases out of her long, soft gloves.  Then she rose and moved quickly across to Lady Garnett’s side, knelt suddenly down by her chair.

“Ah, my aunt!” she cried impulsively, “tell me what is to be done?”

Lady Garnett glanced up from the novel into which she had subsided; she laid it on the little tea-table with a sigh of relief at this sudden mood of confidence, coming a little strangely amidst the young girl’s habitual reticence.