better than if she had been a divorcee, were still inclined to the belief that no time was to be lost—­in doing what, however, they were unable to determine.  Apart from the impossibility of knowing how a fellow like Miltoun would take the matter, they were faced with the devilish subtlety of all situations to which the proverb ‘Least said, soonest mended’ applies.  They were in the presence of that awe-inspiring thing, the power of scandal.  Simple statements of simple facts, without moral drawn (to which no legal exception could be taken) laid before the public as pieces of interesting information, or at the worst exposed in perfect good faith, lest the public should blindly elect as their representative one whose private life might not stand the inspection of daylight—­what could be more justifiable!  And yet Miltoun’s supporters knew that this simple statement of where he spent his evenings had a poisonous potency, through its power of stimulating that side of the human imagination the most easily excited.  They recognized only too well, how strong was a certain primitive desire, especially in rural districts, by yielding to which the world was made to go, and how remarkably hard it, was not to yield to it, and how interesting and exciting to see or hear of others yielding to it, and how (though here, of course, men might differ secretly) reprehensible of them to do so!  They recognized, too well, how a certain kind of conscience would appreciate this rumour; and how the puritans would lick their lengthened chops.  They knew, too, how irresistible to people of any imagination at all, was the mere combination of a member of a class, traditionally supposed to be inclined to having what it wanted, with a lady who lived alone!  As Harbinger said:  It was really devilish awkward!  For, to take any notice of it would be to make more people than ever believe it true.  And yet, that it was working mischief, they felt by the secret voice in their own souls, telling them that they would have believed it if they had not known better.  They hung about, waiting for Miltoun to come in.

The news was received by Lady Valleys with a sigh of intense relief, and the remark that it was probably another lie.  When Barbara confirmed it, she only said:  “Poor Eustace!” and at once wrote off to her husband to say that ‘Anonyma’ was still married, so that the worst fortunately could not happen.

Miltoun came in to lunch, but from his face and manner nothing could be guessed.  He was a thought more talkative than usual, and spoke of Brabrook’s speech—­some of which he had heard.  He looked at Courtier meaningly, and after lunch said to him: 

“Will you come round to my den?”