“Is Lady Cayley in Scale?”

“Lady Cayley is at Scarby.”

“Do you mean to say—­”

“I mean,” said the Canon, rising, “to say nothing.”

Mrs. Eliott detained him with her eyes of anguish.

“Canon Wharton—­do you think she knows?”

“I cannot tell you.”

The Canon never told.  He was far too clever.

Mrs. Eliott wandered to Miss Proctor.

“Do you know,” said Miss Proctor, searching Mrs. Eliott’s face with an inquisitive gaze, “how our friends, the Majendies, are getting on?”

“Oh, as usual.  I see very little of her now.  Anne is quite taken up with her little girl and with her good works.”

“Oh!  That,” said Miss Proctor, “was a most unsuitable marriage.”

It was five o’clock.  The Canon and Miss Proctor had drunk their two cups of tea and departed.  Mrs. Pooley had arrived soon after four; she lingered, to talk a little more about the thought-power and the mind-control.  Mrs. Pooley was convinced that she could make things happen.  That they were, in fact, happening.  But Mrs. Eliott was no longer interested.

Mrs. Pooley, too, departed, feeling that dear Fanny’s Thursday had been a disappointment.  She had been quite unable to sustain the conversation at its usual height.

Mrs. Pooley indubitably gone, Mrs. Eliott wandered down to Johnson in his study.  There, in perfect confidence, she revealed to him the Canon’s revelations.

Johnson betrayed no surprise.  That story had been going the round of his club for the last two years.

“What will Anne do?” said Mrs. Eliott, “when she finds out?”

“I don’t suppose she’ll do anything.”

“Will she get a separation, do you think?”

“How can I tell you?”

“I wonder if she knows.”

“She’s not likely to tell you, if she does.”

“She’s bound to know, sooner or later.  I wonder if one ought to prepare her?”

“Prepare her for what?”

“The shock of it.  I’m afraid of her hearing in some horrid way.  It would be so awful, if she didn’t know.”

“It can’t be pleasant, any way, my dear.”

“Do advise me, Johnson.  Ought I or ought I not to tell her?”

Mr. Eliott’s face told how his nature shrank from the agony of decision.  But he was touched by her distress.

“Certainly not.  Much better let well alone.”

“If I were only sure that it was well I was letting alone.”

“Can’t be sure of anything.  Give it the benefit of the doubt.”

“Yes—­but if you were I?”

“If I were you I should say nothing.”

“That only means that I should say nothing if I were you.  But I’m not.”

“Be thankful, my dear, at any rate, for that.”

He took up a book, The Search for Stellar Parallaxes, a book that he understood and that his wife could not understand.  That book was the sole refuge open to him when pressed for an opinion.  He knew that, when she saw him reading it, she would realise that he was her intellectual master.