He got up and drank some whisky, then went back to the sofa and sat down again.

‘If she is not here by eight,’ he thought, ‘I will go round.’

Opposite was a full-length mirror, and he turned to the wall to avoid it.  There was fixed on his face a look of gloomy determination, as though he were thinking, ‘I’ll show them all that I’m not beaten yet.’

At the click of a latch-key he scrambled off the sofa, and his face resumed its mask.  She came in as usual, dropped her opera cloak, and stood before him with bare shoulders.  Looking in her face, he wondered if she knew.

“I thought I’d better come,” she said.  “I suppose you’ve had the same charming present?”

George nodded.  There was a minute’s silence.

“It’s really rather funny.  I’m sorry for you, George.”

George laughed too, but his laugh was different.

“I will do all I can,” he said.

Mrs. Bellew came close to him.

“I’ve seen about the Kempton race.  What shocking luck!  I suppose you’ve lost a lot.  Poor boy!  It never rains but it pours.”

George looked down.

“That’s all right; nothing matters when I have you.”

He felt her arms fasten behind his neck, but they were cool as marble; he met her eyes, and they were mocking and compassionate.

Their cab, wheeling into the main thoroughfare, joined in the race of cabs flying as for life toward the East—­past the Park, where the trees, new-leafed, were swinging their skirts like ballet-dancers in the wind; past the Stoics’ and the other clubs, rattling, jingling, jostling for the lead, shooting past omnibuses that looked cosy in the half-light with their lamps and rows of figures solemnly opposed.

At Blafard’s the tall dark young waiter took her cloak with reverential fingers; the little wine-waiter smiled below the suffering in his eyes.  The same red-shaded lights fell on her arms and shoulders, the same flowers of green and yellow grew bravely in the same blue vases.  On the menu were written the same dishes.  The same idle eye peered through the chink at the corner of the red blinds with its stare of apathetic wonder.

Often during that dinner George looked at her face by stealth, and its expression baffled him, so careless was it.  And, unlike her mood of late, that had been glum and cold, she was in the wildest spirits.

People looked round from the other little tables, all full now that the season had begun, her laugh was so infectious; and George felt a sort of disgust.  What was it in this woman that made her laugh, when his own heart was heavy?  But he said nothing; he dared not even look at her, for fear his eyes should show his feeling.

‘We ought to be squaring our accounts,’ he thought—­’looking things in the face.  Something must be done; and here she is laughing and making everyone stare!’ Done!  But what could be done, when it was all like quicksand?