“Yes,” said Herbert; “it’s that philosophy which consists in an absence of philosophy—­not the worst kind, either, it seems to me.  It’s the philosophy of impulse.”

“I thought that the aim of all philosophy was to check every impulse,” said Ella.

“So it is; that’s why women do not make good philosophers,” said her husband.

“Or, for that matter, good mothers of philosophers,” said Herbert.

“That’s rather a hard saying, isn’t it?” said the other man.

“No,” said his wife; “it’s as transparent as air.”

“London air in November?” suggested her husband.

“He means that there’s no such thing.”

“As air in London in November?  I’m with him there.”

“He means that there’s no such thing as a good philosopher.”

“Then I hope he has an appetite for dinner.  The man without philosophy usually has.”

The butler had just announced dinner.

There was not much talk among them of philosophy so long as the footmen were floating round them like mighty tropical birds.  They talked of the House of Commons instead.  A new measure was to be introduced the next night:  something that threatened beer and satisfied no party; not even the teetotalers—­only the wives of the teetotalers.  Then they had a few words regarding George Holland’s article in the Zeit Geist.  Mr. Linton seemed to some extent interested in the contentions of the rector of St. Chad’s; and Herbert agreed with him when he expressed the opinion that the two greatest problems that the Church had to face were:  How to get people with intelligence to go to church, and what to do with them when they were there.

In an hour they were in their box at Covent Garden listening to the sensuous music of “Carmen,” and comparing the sauciness of the charming little devil who sang the habanera, with the piquancy of the last Carmen but three, and with the refinement of the one who had made so great a success at Munich.  They agreed that the savagery of the newest was very fascinating,—­Stephen Linton called it womanly,—­but they thought they should like to hear her in the third act before pronouncing a definite opinion regarding her capacity.

Then the husband left the box to talk to some people who were seated opposite.

“You know everything?” she said.

“Everything,” said Herbert.  “Can you ever forgive me?”

“For running away?  Oh, Bertie, you cannot have heard all.”

“For forcing you to write me that letter—­can you ever forgive me?”

“Oh, the letter?  Oh, Bertie, we were both wrong—­terribly wrong.  But we were saved.”

“Yes, we were saved.  Thank God—­thank God!”

“That was my first cry, Bertie, when I felt that I was safe—­that we both had been saved:  Thank God!  It seemed as if a miracle had been done to save us.”

“So it was—­a miracle.”

“I spent the night praying that you might be kept away from me, Bertie—­away for ever and ever.  I felt that I was miserably weak; I felt that I could not trust myself; but now that you are here beside me again I feel strong.  Oh, Bertie, we know ourselves better now than we did a week ago—­is it only a week ago?  It seems months—­years—­a lifetime!”