Miriam took the paper, and read what was indicated.  It was the report of a discreditable affair—­in journalistic language, a fracas—­that had happened the previous night at Notting Hill.  A certain music-hall singer, a lady who had of late achieved popularity, drove home about midnight, accompanied by a gentleman whose name was also familiar to the public—­at all events, to that portion of it which reads society journals and has an interest in race-horses.  The pair had just alighted at the house-door, when they were hurriedly approached by another gentleman, who made some remark to the songstress; whereupon the individual known to fame struck him smartly with his walking-stick.  The result was a personal conflict, a rolling upon the pavement, a tearing of shirt-collars, and the opportune arrival of police.  The gentleman whose interference had led to the rencontre—­again to borrow the reporter’s phrase—­ and who was charged with assault by the other, at first gave a false name; it had since transpired that he was a Mr. R. Elgar, of Belsize Park.

Miriam laid down the paper.  She had overcome her extreme agitation, but there was hot shame on her cheeks.  She tried to smile.

“One would think he had contrived it for his wife’s greeting on her return.”

Eleanor was silent.

“I am not much surprised,” Miriam added.  “Nor you either, I dare say?”

“I have felt uneasy; but I never pictured anything like this.  Can we do anything?  Shall you go and see him?”

“No.”

They sat for some minutes without speaking; then Miriam exclaimed angrily: 

“What right had she to go abroad alone?”

“For anything we know, Miriam, she may have had only too good a reason.”

“Then I don’t see that it matters.”

Eleanor sighed, and, after a little lingering, but without further speech, went from the room.

In the meantime, Spence had entered the house.  Eleanor met him in the drawing-room, and held the paper to him, with a silent indication of the paragraph.  He read, and with an exclamation of violent disgust threw the thing aside.  His philosophy failed him for once.

“What a blackguardly affair!  Does Miriam know?”

“I have just shown it her.  Evidently she had a suspicion of what was going on.”

Spence muttered a little; then regained something of his usual equanimity.

“Our conjectures may be right,” he said.  “Perhaps no revelation awaits her.”

“I begin to think it very likely.  Oh, it is hateful, vile!  She oughtn’t to return to him.”

“Pray, what is she to do?”

“I had rather she died than begin such a life!”

“I see no help for her.  Her lot is that of many a woman no worse than herself.  We both foresaw it; Mallard foresaw it.”

“I am afraid to look forward.  I don’t think she is the kind of woman to forgive again and again.  This will revolt her, and there is no telling what she may do.”