It was not a case of allowing, however.  He might object, and did; but he was no match for her either in diplomacy or in fight, and her cajoleries were usually sufficient for her ends, without calling out the reserves behind them.  In any contest between selfishness and unselfishness, the result is a foregone conclusion.

So she began to go about with miscellaneous escorts, to play the combined parts of frisky matron and society beauty—­an intoxicating experience; while the supporter of that proud position played the humble role of chief comer-stone, unseen and unconsidered in the basement of the fabric.  He attended to his investments and increasing infirmities, and made secret visits to a married daughter (wife of a big hotel-keeper), who hated her young step-mother, and whose existence Frances ignored.

One day, Guthrie Carey, after several voyages to other ports, appeared again in Melbourne.  He had just landed, and was strolling along Collins Street, when he encountered a vision of loveliness that almost took away his breath.

“What!  It is not Miss Frances, surely?”

“It is not,” smiled she, all her beauty at its conscious best as she recognised his, which was that of a man of men, splendid in his strong prime.  And she told him who she was, and a few other things, as they stood on the pavement—­she so graceful in her mature self-possession, he staring at her, stupidly distraught, like a bewildered school-boy.

“I had no idea—­” he mumbled.

“That I was married?  Alas, yes!”—­with a sad shake of the head.  “We girls are fated, I think.”

“Miss Deb?”

“Oh, not Deb; she has escaped so far.”

“Is she well?”

“I have not seen her lately, but I am sure she is, she always is.”  “She is not in Melbourne?”

“No.  I don’t quite know where she is.  She has got a wandering fit on.  Come and have some lunch with me, and I’ll tell you all the news.”

They turned into a restaurant, and had a meal which took a long time to get through.  In the middle of the afternoon they parted, on the understanding that he would dine with her later in her own house.  At the end of the few days that were virtually filled with him, Mrs Ewing sat down in her fine boudoir to weep over her hard fate.

“Oh, why wasn’t he the one to have the money!  Oh, why do we meet again, now that it is too late!”

At the end of a few more days she went to her old husband to ask him how he was.  He said he was a bit troubled with his lumbago, but otherwise fairly well.

“What you want,” said she, “is a sea-voyage.”

He thought not.  He had never found the sea suit him.  And travelling was a great fatigue.  And it was the wrong time of year for it, anyhow.  They had a good home, and it was the best place.

But she knew better.  She had made up her mind, and it was useless for him to rebel.  The sea-voyage was decided on—­not so much because it would benefit his health as because his young wife had not seen England and Europe, and was dying to do so.