“About half-past five, sir.  Anne said the cab was blocked in the fog.”

“Very well.  Tell her ladyship that I shall be down in a minute.”

“Daddy,” said the child, “I haven’t said my prayers.  Mother did not come, and Anne said it was all nonsense about prayers.  Auntie did always hear me my prayers.”

“Yes, dear, and so will I. There, kneel upon my lap and say them.”

In the middle of the prayers—­which Effie did not remember as well as she might have done—­the parlourmaid arrived again.

“Please, sir, her ladyship——­”

“Tell her ladyship I am coming, and that if she is in a hurry she can go to dinner!  Go on, love.”

Then he kissed her and put her to bed again.

“Daddy,” said Effie, as he was going, “shall I see auntie Beatrice any more?”

“I hope so, dear.”

“And shall you see her any more?  You want to see her, don’t you, daddy?  She did love you very much!”

Geoffrey could bear it no longer.  The truth is always sharper when it comes from the mouth of babes and sucklings.  With a hurried good-night he fled.

In the little drawing-room he found Lady Honoria, very well dressed, and also her friend, whose name was Mr. Dunstan.  Geoffrey knew him at once for an exceedingly wealthy man of small birth, and less breeding, but a burning and a shining light in the Garsington set.  Mr. Dunstan was anxious to raise himself in society, and he thought that notwithstanding her poverty, Lady Honoria might be useful to him in this respect.  Hence his presence there to-night.

“How do you do, Geoffrey?” said his wife, advancing to greet him with a kiss of peace.  “You look very well.  But what an immense time you have been dressing.  Poor Mr. Dunstan is starving.  Let me see.  You know Mr. Dunstan, I think.  Dinner, Mary.”

Geoffrey apologised for being late, and shook hands politely with Mr. Dunstan—­Saint Dunstan he was generally called on account of his rather clerical appearance and in sarcastic allusion to his somewhat shady reputation.  Then they went in to dinner.

“Sorry there is no lady for you, Geoffrey; but you must have had plenty of ladies’ society lately.  By the way, how is Miss—­Miss Granger?  Would you believe it, Mr. Dunstan? that shocking husband of mine has been passing the last month in the company of one of the loveliest girls I ever saw, who knows Latin and law and everything else under the sun.  She began by saving his life, they were upset together out of a canoe, you know.  Isn’t it romantic?”

Saint Dunstan made some appropriate—­or, rather inappropriate—­remark to the effect that he hoped Mr. Bingham had made the most of such unrivalled opportunities, adding, with a deep sigh, that no lovely young lady had ever saved his life that he might live for her, &c., &c.

Here Geoffrey broke in without much ceremony.  To him it seemed a desecration to listen while this person was making his feeble jokes about Beatrice.