Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing when he himself perceived no joke.  Indeed, he detested Euphemia altogether, to whom he always alluded as ’Nick’s daughter, what’s she called—­the pale one?’ He had just missed being her god-father—­indeed, would have been, had he not taken a firm stand against her outlandish name.  He hated becoming a godfather.  Swithin then said to Francie with dignity:  “It’s a fine day—­er—­for the time of year.”  But Euphemia, who knew perfectly well that he had refused to be her godfather, turned to Aunt Hester, and began telling her how she had seen Irene—­Mrs. Soames—­at the Church and Commercial Stores.

“And Soames was with her?” said Aunt Hester, to whom Mrs. Small had as yet had no opportunity of relating the incident.

“Soames with her?  Of course not!”

“But was she all alone in London?”

“Oh, no; there was Mr. Bosinney with her.  She was perfectly dressed.”

But Swithin, hearing the name Irene, looked severely at Euphemia, who, it is true, never did look well in a dress, whatever she may have done on other occasions, and said: 

“Dressed like a lady, I’ve no doubt.  It’s a pleasure to see her.”

At this moment James and his daughters were announced.  Dartie, feeling badly in want of a drink, had pleaded an appointment with his dentist, and, being put down at the Marble Arch, had got into a hansom, and was already seated in the window of his club in Piccadilly.

His wife, he told his cronies, had wanted to take him to pay some calls. 
It was not in his line—­not exactly.  Haw!

Hailing the waiter, he sent him out to the hall to see what had won the 4.30 race.  He was dog-tired, he said, and that was a fact; had been drivin’ about with his wife to ‘shows’ all the afternoon.  Had put his foot down at last.  A fellow must live his own life.

At this moment, glancing out of the bay window—­for he loved this seat whence he could see everybody pass—­his eye unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, chanced to light on the figure of Soames, who was mousing across the road from the Green Park-side, with the evident intention of coming in, for he, too, belonged to ‘The Iseeum.’

Dartie sprang to his feet; grasping his glass, he muttered something about ‘that 4.30 race,’ and swiftly withdrew to the card-room, where Soames never came.  Here, in complete isolation and a dim light, he lived his own life till half past seven, by which hour he knew Soames must certainly have left the club.

It would not do, as he kept repeating to himself whenever he felt the impulse to join the gossips in the bay-window getting too strong for him—­it absolutely would not do, with finances as low as his, and the ‘old man’ (James) rusty ever since that business over the oil shares, which was no fault of his, to risk a row with Winifred.