He turned; Irene had made a rapid movement.

“Hallo!” he said:  “it’s our friend the Buccaneer!”

And he sat still, with his sneering smile, conscious that Irene was sitting still, and smiling too.

“Will she bow to him?” he thought.

But she made no sign.

Bosinney reached the end of the rails, and came walking back amongst the chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer.  When he saw them he stopped dead, and raised his hat.

The smile never left Soames’ face; he also took off his hat.

Bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard physical exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and Soames’ smile seemed to say:  “You’ve had a trying time, my friend ......What are you doing in the Park?” he asked.  “We thought you despised such frivolity!”

Bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to Irene:  “I’ve been round to your place; I hoped I should find you in.”

Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her answer, and took a resolution.

“We’re just going in,” he said to Bosinney; “you’d better come back to dinner with us.”  Into that invitation he put a strange bravado, a stranger pathos:  “You, can’t deceive me,” his look and voice seemed saying, “but see—­I trust you—­I’m not afraid of you!”

They started back to Montpellier Square together, Irene between them.  In the crowded streets Soames went on in front.  He did not listen to their conversation; the strange resolution of trustfulness he had taken seemed to animate even his secret conduct.  Like a gambler, he said to himself:  ’It’s a card I dare not throw away—­I must play it for what it’s worth.  I have not too many chances.’

He dressed slowly, heard her leave her room and go downstairs, and, for full five minutes after, dawdled about in his dressing-room.  Then he went down, purposely shutting the door loudly to show that he was coming.  He found them standing by the hearth, perhaps talking, perhaps not; he could not say.

He played his part out in the farce, the long evening through—­his manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been before; and when at last Bosinney went, he said:  “You must come again soon; Irene likes to have you to talk about the house!” Again his voice had the strange bravado and the stranger pathos; but his hand was cold as ice.

Loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, turned away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to say good-night—­away from the sight of her golden head shining so under the light, of her smiling mournful lips; away from the sight of Bosinney’s eyes looking at her, so like a dog’s looking at its master.

And he went to bed with the certainty that Bosinney was in love with his wife.

The summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every opened window came in but hotter air.  For long hours he lay listening to her breathing.