She wondered if he had any suspicion in regard to Herbert and herself.  He was not a man given to suspicion, or at any rate, given to allowing whatever suspicion he may have felt, to be apparent.  He had allowed her to drive and to ride with Herbert Courtland during the four months they had been together, first at Egypt, then at Florence, Vienna, Munich, and Paris, and he could not have but seen that Herbert and she had a good many sympathies in common.  Not a word had been breathed, however, of a suspicion that they were more than good friends to each other.

(As a matter of fact, they had not been more than good friends to each other; but then some husbands are given to unworthy suspicions.)

Could it be possible, she asked herself, that some people with nasty minds had suggested to him in Paris that she and Herbert were together a great deal in London, and that he had been led to make this sudden visit, this surprise visit to London, with a view of satisfying himself as to the truth of the nasty reports—­the disgraceful calumnies which had reached his ears?

If he had done so, all that could be said was that he had been singularly unfortunate in regard to his visit.  “Unfortunate” was the word which was in her mind, though, of course "fortunate" was the word which should have occurred to her.  It was certainly a fortunate result of his visit—­that tableau in the drawing room of Mr. Ayrton:  Ella and her dearest friend standing side by side, hand in hand, as he entered.  A surprise visit, it may have been, but assuredly the surprise was a pleasant one for the husband, if he had listened to the voice of calumny.

And then, after pondering upon this with a smiling face, her smile suddenly vanished.  She was overwhelmed with the thought of what might have been the result of that surprise visit—­yes, if she had not had the strength to run away to the side of Phyllis; yes, if Herbert had not had the weakness to join that party of poker-players aboard the yacht.

She began to wonder what her husband would have done if he had entered the house by the aid of his latch-key, and had found her sitting in that lovely costume by the side of Herbert Courtland?  Would he have thought her a guilty woman?  Would he have thought Herbert a false friend?  Would he have killed her, or would he have killed Herbert?  Herbert would, she thought, take a good deal of killing from a man of the caliber of her husband; but what could she have done?

Well, what she did, as the force of that thought crushed her back upon her chair, was to bring her hands together in a passionate clasp, and to cry in a passionate gasp: 

“Thank God—­thank God—­thank God!”

She dined alone with her husband that night, and thought it well to appear in another evening toilet—­one that was quite as lovely, though scarcely so striking, as that which her husband had so admired the previous night.  He clearly appreciated her efforts to maintain her loveliness in his eyes, and their little dinner was a very pleasant one.