“You won’t mind motoring, Mrs. Mannering?” Berenice said, as she approached.  “I have invited myself to luncheon with you, and I am going to take you round to the club in the car.”

Blanche stood quite still for a moment.  The sun was in her eyes, and she lowered her parasol for a moment.

“It will be very pleasant,” she said, quietly, “only I think that I will go in and change my hat.  I thought that we were going to walk.”

She retraced her steps, walking a little wearily.  Berenice came and sat down by Mannering’s side.

“I hope Mrs. Mannering does not object to my coming,” she said.  “It occurred to me that she was not particularly cordial.”

“It is only her manner,” he answered.  “It is very good of you to take us.”

“Your wife doesn’t like me,” Berenice said.  “I wonder why.  I thought that I had been rather decent to her.”

“Blanche is a little odd,” Mannering answered.  “I am afraid that it is my fault.  Here are the Redfords.  I wonder if they would join us.”

“Three,” she murmured, “is certainly an awkward number.”

In the end the party became rather a large one, for Lord Redford met some old friends at the club who insisted upon their joining tables.  In the interval, whilst they waited for luncheon, Mannering contrived to have a word alone with his wife.

“I am not responsible,” he said, “for this enlargement of our party.  The Duchess invited herself.”

“It does not matter,” she declared, listlessly.  “What are you doing afterwards?”

“Playing golf, I fancy,” he answered.  “You heard what Redford said about a foursome.”

“And you are returning—­when?”

“I must leave here at six to-morrow morning.”

They were leaning over the white palings of the pavilion, looking out upon the last green.  She seemed to be watching the approach of two players who were just coming in.

“It is a long way to come,” she remarked, “for so short a time.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“The aftermath of a contested election is a thing to escape from,” he said.  “I felt that I wanted to get as far away as possible, and then again I wanted to find out who it was who had sent that telegram.”

They sat apart at luncheon, and Blanche was much quieter than usual.  The others were all old friends.  It seemed to her more than ordinarily apparent that she was present on sufferance, accepted as Mannering’s wife, as an evil to be endured, and, so far as possible, ignored.  Mannering himself spoke to her now and then across the table.  Lord Redford, always good-natured, made a few efforts to draw her into the conversation.  But it seemed to her that she had lost her confidence.  The freemasonry of old acquaintance which existed between all of them left her outside an invisible but very real circle.  Words came to her with difficulty.  She felt stupid, almost shy.  When she made an effort to break through it she was acutely conscious of her failure.  Her laugh was too hard, it lacked sincerity or restraint.  The cigarette which she smoked out of bravado with her coffee, seemed somehow out of place.  When at last luncheon was over Mannering left his place and came over to her.