But Majendie lacked her passion and her inspiration.  He simply said he was delighted to hear it, and that he would make a point of being at home.  He would have to give up an engagement which he would not have made if he had known.  But that did not greatly matter.

They came, the Eliotts and the rest, and Miss Proctor again pronounced him charming.  To be sure, he was not half so amusing as he had been on his first appearance in Thurston Square; but it was only becoming that he should repress himself a little at his own table and in the presence of the Canon. He, the Canon, was brilliant, if you like.

For that night the Canon was, as usual, all things to all men, and especially to all women.  He was the man of the world for Miss Proctor; the fine epicure of books for Mrs. Eliott; for Mr. Eliott and Dr. Gardner, the broad-minded searcher and enthusiast, the humble camp-follower of the conquering sciences.  “You are the pioneers,” said he; “you go before us on the march.  But we keep up, we keep up.  We can step out—­cassock and all.”

But he spread out all his spiritual lures for Mrs. Majendie.  His eyes seemed more than ever to pursue her, to search her, to be gazing discreetly at the secret of her soul.  They drew her with the clear and candid flattery of their understanding.  She could feel the clever little Canon taking her in and making notes on her.  “Sensitive.  Unhappy.  Intensely spiritual nature.  Too fine and pure for him.”  And over the unhallowed, half-abandoned table, flushed slightly with Majendie’s good wine, the Canon drew up his chair to his host, and stretched his little legs, and let his spirit expand in a rosy, broad humanity.  As he had charmed the spiritual woman he saw in Anne, so he laid himself out to flatter the natural man he saw in Majendie.  And Majendie leaned back in his chair, and gazed at the Canon, the remarkable, the clever, the versatile little Canon, with half-closed eyelids veiling his contemptuous eyes. (He confided to Hannay, later on, that the Canon, in his after-dinner moments, made him sick.)

Anne heard nothing more of Mr. Gorst for over a fortnight.  It was on a Saturday, and Majendie asked her suddenly, during luncheon, if she thought the Eliotts would be disengaged that evening.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve asked Gorst” (again that disagreeable emphasis) “to dine to-night.”

“Very well.  I will ask Mrs. Eliott if she can have me.”

“Can you?”

“Perfectly.”

“Oh—­and I must prepare you for something quite horrible.  Some time, you know” (he smiled provokingly), “I shall have to ask the Hannays.  Do you think you can arrange that?”

“I shall have to,” said she.

This time (it was the third) she was obliged to take Mrs. Eliott into her confidence.  She fairly flung herself on her friend’s mercy.

“I feel as if I were making use of you,” said she.