“I don’t think a dinner party would lighten it,” I said.  “And if I were you, I wouldn’t suggest it to Anthony.”

“That’s rather mysterious.”  She looked at me shrewdly.  “And there’s another mysterious thing.  Anthony’s like a yapping sphinx over it.  What were you two talking to Gedge about this morning?” “Nothing particular.”

“That’s nonsense, Duncan.  Gedge was making himself unpleasant.  He never does anything else.”

“If you want to know,” said I, with a convulsive effort of invention, “we heard that he was preparing some sort of demonstration, going to bring down some of his precious anti-war-league people.”

“He wouldn’t have the pluck,” she exclaimed.

“Anyhow,” said I, “we thought we had better have him in and read him the Riot—­or rather the Defence of the Realm—­Act.  That’s all.”

“Then why on earth couldn’t Anthony tell me?”

“You ought to know the mixture of sugar and pepper in your husband’s nature better than I do, my dear Edith,” I replied.

Her laugh reassured me.  I had turned a difficult corner.  No doubt she would go to Sir Anthony with my explanation and either receive his acquiescence or learn the real truth.

She was bidding me farewell when Sir Anthony came along the platform to the chair.  I glanced up, but I saw that he did not wish to speak to me.  He was looking grim and tired.  He called down to his wife: 

“It’s time to move, dear.  The troops are still standing outside.”

She bustled about giving the signal for departure, first running to Boyce and taking him by the sleeve.  I had not noticed that he had withdrawn with Betty a few feet away from the little group.  They were interrupted in an animated conversation.  At the sight I felt a keen pang of repulsion.  Those two ought not to talk together as old friends.  It outraged decencies.  It was all very well for Betty to play the magnanimous and patriotic Englishwoman.  By her first word of welcome she had fulfilled the part.  But this flushed, eager talk lay far beyond the scope of patriotic duty.  How could they thus converse over the body of the dead Althea?  With both of them was I indignant.

In my inmost heart I felt horribly and vulgarly jealous.  I may as well confess it.  Deeply as I had sworn blood-brotherhood with Boyce, regardless of the crimes he might or might not have committed, I could not admit him into that inner brotherhood of which Betty and I alone were members.  And this is just a roundabout, shame-faced way of saying that, at that moment, I discovered that I was hopelessly, insanely in love with Betty.  The knowledge came to me in a great wave of dismay.

“You’ll let me see you again, won’t you?” he asked.

“If you like.”