About three o’clock that afternoon a tall man walked up the avenue at Worsted Skeynes, in one hand carrying his hat, in the other a small brown bag.  He stopped now and then, and took deep breaths, expanding the nostrils of his straight nose.  He had a fine head, with wings of grizzled hair.  His clothes were loose, his stride was springy.  Standing in the middle of the drive, taking those long breaths, with his moist blue eyes upon the sky, he excited the attention of a robin, who ran out of a rhododendron to see, and when he had passed began to whistle.  Gregory Vigil turned, and screwed up his humorous lips, and, except that he was completely lacking in embonpoint, he had a certain resemblance to this bird, which is supposed to be peculiarly British.

He asked for Mrs. Pendyce in a high, light voice, very pleasant to the ear, and was at once shown to the white morning-room.

She greeted him affectionately, like many women who have grown used to hearing from their husbands the formula “Oh! your people!”—­she had a strong feeling for her kith and kin.

“You know, Grig,” she said, when her cousin was seated, “your letter was rather disturbing.  Her separation from Captain Bellew has caused such a lot of talk about here.  Yes; it’s very common, I know, that sort of thing, but Horace is so——!  All the squires and parsons and county people we get about here are just the same.  Of course, I’m very fond of her, she’s so charming to look at; but, Gregory, I really don’t dislike her husband.  He’s a desperate sort of person—­I think that’s rather, refreshing; and you know I do think she’s a little like him in that!”

The blood rushed up into Gregory Vigil’s forehead; he put his hand to his head, and said: 

“Like him?  Like that man?  Is a rose like an artichoke?”

Mrs. Pendyce went on: 

“I enjoyed having her here immensely.  It’s the first time she’s been here since she left the Firs.  How long is that?  Two years?  But you know, Grig, the Maidens were quite upset about her.  Do you think a divorce is really necessary?”

Gregory Vigil answered:  “I’m afraid it is.”

Mrs. Pendyce met her cousin’s gaze serenely; if anything, her brows were uplifted more than usual; but, as at the stirring of secret trouble, her fingers began to twine and twist.  Before her rose a vision of George and Mrs. Bellew side by side.  It was a vague maternal feeling, an instinctive fear.  She stilled her fingers, let her eyelids droop, and said: 

“Of course, dear Grig, if I can help you in any way—­Horace does so dislike anything to do with the papers.”

Gregory Vigil drew in his breath.

“The papers!” he said.  “How hateful it is!  To think that our civilisation should allow women to be cast to the dogs!  Understand, Margery, I’m thinking of her.  In this matter I’m not capable of considering anything else.”

Mrs. Pendyce murmured:  “Of course, dear Grig, I quite understand.”