There was a strong contrast between Quarrier’s glowing vehemence and the show of calm reflection which the other maintained as he listened.  Denzil’s face was fully lighted by the fire; his friend’s received the shadow of an old-fashioned screen which Glazzard, finding the heat oppressive, had pulled forward a few minutes ago.  The frank, fearless gaze with which Denzil’s words were accompanied met no response; but to this habit in the listener he was accustomed.

“Yes, we must tell lies!” Quarrier emphasized the words savagely.  “Social law is stupid and unjust, imposing its obligation without regard to person or circumstance.  It presumes that no one can be trusted.  I decline to be levelled with the unthinking multitude.  You and I can be a law to ourselves.  What I shall do is this:  On returning to town next week, I shall take Lilian over to Paris.  We shall live there for several weeks, and about the end of the time I shall write to my people here, and tell them that I have just been married.”

He paused.  Glazzard made no motion, and uttered no sound.

“I have already dropped a mysterious word or two to my Mister, which she will be able to interpret afterwards.  Happily, I am thought a likely fellow to do odd, unconventional things.  Again and again Mary has heard me rail against the idiocies of ordinary weddings; this private marriage will be quite in character.  I shall state that Lilian has hitherto been a governess at Stockholm—­that I made her acquaintance there—­that I sent for her to meet me in Paris.  Now, tell me, have you any objection to offer?”

Glazzard shifted his position, coughed, and drew from his case a new cigar, which he scrutinized closely from tip to end—­even drawing it along under his nose.  Then he spoke very quietly.

“It’s feasible—­but dangerous.”

“But not very dangerous, I think?”

“I can’t say.  It depends greatly on your wife’s character.”

“Thank you for using that word, old fellow!” burst from Denzil.  “She is my wife, in every sense of the word that merits the consideration of a rational creature!”

“I admit it; but I am afraid of lies.”

“I am not only afraid of them; I hate them bitterly.  I can say with a clear conscience that I abhor untruthfulness.  I have never told a deliberate lie since I was old enough to understand the obligation of truth!  But we have to do with monstrous social tyrannies.  Lilian can no longer live in hiding.  She must have a full and enjoyable life.”

“Yes.  But is it possible for her, under these conditions?”

“I think so.  I have still to speak to her, but I know she will see things as I do.”

A very faint smile flitted over Glazzard’s lips.

“Good!  And you don’t fear discovery by—­what’s his name—­ Northway?”