“If that’s the way you are going to treat it, I would sooner not have it—­the face in the glass, a lot of repetitions of words, sentences beginning with ‘And,’ then a mention of shoes and silk stockings.  If you can’t write feelingly about her, you had better not write at all.”

“I don’t see that a string of colloquialisms constitute feelings,” said Mike.

Mike kept his temper; he did not intend to allow it to imperil his residence in Temple Gardens, or his position in the newspaper; but he couldn’t control his vanity, and ostentatiously threw Lady Helen’s handkerchief upon the table, and admitted to having picked it up in the hotel.

“What am I to do with it?  I suppose I must keep it as a relic,” he added with a laugh, as he opened his wardrobe.

There were there ladies’ shoes, scarves, and neckties; there were there sachets and pincushions; there were there garters, necklaces, cotillion favours, and a tea-gown.

Again Frank boiled over with indignation, and having vented his sense of rectitude, he left the room without even bidding his friend good-night or good-morning.  The next day he spent the entire afternoon with Lizzie, for Lady Helen’s suicide had set his nature in active ferment.

In the story of every soul there are times of dissolution and reconstruction in which only the generic forms are preserved.  A new force had been introduced, and it was disintegrating that mass of social fibre which is modern man, and the decomposition teemed with ideas of duty, virtue, and love.  He interrupted Lizzie’s chit-chat constantly with reflections concerning the necessity of religious belief in women.

About seven they went to eat in a restaurant close by.  It was an old Italian chop-house that had been enlarged and modernized, but the original marble tables where customers ate chops and steaks at low prices were retained in a remote and distant corner.  Lizzie proposed to sit there.  They were just seated when a golden-haired girl of theatrical mien entered.

“That’s Lottie Rily,” exclaimed Lizzie.  Then lowering her voice she whispered quickly, “She was in love with Mike once; he was the fellow she left her ’ome for.  She’s on the stage now, and gets four pounds a week.  I haven’t seen her for the last couple of years.  Lottie, come and sit down here.”

The girl turned hastily.  “What, Lizzie, old pal, I have not seen you for ages.”

“Not for more than two years.  Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Escott—­Miss Lottie Rily of the Strand Theatre.”

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir; the editor of the Pilgrim, I presume?”

Frank smiled with pleasure, and the waiter interposed with the bill of fare.  Lottie ordered a plate of roast beef, and leaned across the table to talk to her friend.

“Have you seen Mike lately?” asked Lizzie.

“Swine!” she answered, tossing her head.  “No; and don’t want to.  You know how he treated me.  He left me three months after my baby was born.”