‘Have you spoken to her?’ said Redworth.

’And next to Berlin!  Vienna!  A horse would be . . . .

I?  I don’t know her,’ Raiser replied.  ’Some of their women stand it.  She’s delicately built.  You can’t treat a lute like a drum without destroying the instrument.  We look on at a murder!’

The haggard prospect from that step of the climax checked his delivery.

Redworth knew him to be a sober man in office, a man with a head for statecraft:  he had made a weighty speech in the House a couple of hours back.  This Opera cantatrice, no beauty, though gentle, thrilling, winning, was his corner of romance.

‘Do you come here often?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I can’t sleep.’

‘London at night, from the bridge, looks fine.  By the way . . .’

’It ‘s lonely here, that’s the advantage,’ said Rainer; ’I keep silver in my pocket for poor girls going to their homes, and I’m left in peace.  An hour later, there’s the dawn down yonder.’

‘By the way,’ Redworth interposed, and was told that after these nights of her singing she never slept till morning.  He swallowed the fact, sympathized, and resumed:  ‘I want a small favour.’

‘No business here, please!’

’Not a bit of it.  You know Mrs. Warwick. . . .  You know of her.  She ’s publishing a book.  I want you to use your influence to get it noticed quickly, if you can.’

’Warwick?  Oh, yes, a handsome woman.  Ah, yes; the Dannisburgh affair, yes.  What did I hear!—­They say she ’s thick with Percy Dacier at present.  Who was talking of her!  Yes, old Lady Dacier.  So she ’s a friend of yours?’

‘She’s an old friend,’ said Redworth, composing himself; for the dose he had taken was not of the sweetest, and no protestations could be uttered by a man of the world to repel a charge of tattlers.  ’The truth is, her book is clever.  I have read the proofs.  She must have an income, and she won’t apply to her husband, and literature should help her, if she ’s fairly treated.  She ’s Irish by descent; Merion’s daughter, witty as her father.  It’s odd you haven’t met her.  The mere writing of the book is extraordinarily good.  If it ’s put into capable hands for review! that’s all it requires.  And full of life . . . bright dialogue . . capital sketches.  The book’s a piece of literature.  Only it must have competent critics!’

So he talked while Rainer ejaculated:  ‘Warwick?  Warwick?’ in the irritating tone of dozens of others.  ’What did I hear of her husband?  He has a post . . . .  Yes, yes.  Some one said the verdict in that case knocked him over—­heart disease, or something.’

He glanced at the dark Thames water.  ’Take my word for it, the groves of Academe won’t compare with one of our bridges at night, if you seek philosophy.  You see the London above and the London below:  round us the sleepy city, and the stars in the water looking like souls of suicides.  I caught a girl with a bad fit on her once.  I had to lecture her!  It’s when we become parsons we find out our cousinship with these poor peripatetics, whose “last philosophy” is a jump across the parapet.  The bridge at night is a bath for a public man.  But choose another; leave me mine.’