Nataly could not utter all that her insaneness of feeling made her think with regard to Victor’s daughter—­daughter also of the woman whom her hard conscience accused of inflammability.  ’Here is a note from Dr. Themison, dear.’

Victor seized it, perused, and drew the big breath.

‘From Themison,’ he said; he coughed.

‘Don’t think to deceive me,’ said she.  ’I have not read the contents, I know them.’

’The invitation at last, for to-morrow, Sunday, four P.M.  Odd, that next day at eight of the evening I shall be addressing our meeting in the Theatre.  Simeon speaks.  Beaves Urmsing insists on coming, Tory though he is.  Those Tories are jollier fellows than—­well, no wonder!  There will be no surgical . . . the poor woman is very low.  A couple of days at the outside.  Of course, I go.’

‘Hand me the note, dear.’

It had to be given up, out of the pocket.

‘But,’ said Victor, ‘the mention of you is merely formal.’

She needed sleep:  she bowed her head.

Nataly was the first at the breakfast-table in the morning, a fair Sunday morning.  She was going to Mrs. John Cormyn’s Church, and she asked Nesta to come with her.

She returned five minutes before the hour of lunch, having left Nesta with Mrs. John.  Louise de Seilles undertook to bring Nesta home at the time she might choose.  Fenellan, Mr. Pempton, Peridon and Catkin, lunched and chatted.  Nataly chatted.  At a quarter to three o’clock Victor’s carriage was at the door.  He rose:  he had to keep an appointment.  Nataly said to him publicly:  ‘I come too.’  He stared and nodded.  In the carriage, he said:  ’I’m driving to the Gardens, for a stroll, to have a look at the beasts.  Sort of relief.  Poor crazy woman!  However, it ’s a comfort to her:  so . . . !’

‘I like to see them,’ said Nataly.  ‘I shall see her.  I have to do it.’

Up to the gate of the Gardens Victor was arguing to dissuade his dear soul from this very foolish, totally unnecessary, step.  Alighting, he put the matter aside, for good angels to support his counsel at the final moment.

Bears, lions, tigers, eagles, monkeys:  they suggested no more than he would have had from prints; they sprang no reflection, except, that the coming hour was a matter of indifference to them.  They were about him, and exercised so far a distraction.  He took very kindly to an old mother monkey, relinquishing her society at sight of Nataly’s heave of the bosom.  Southward, across the park, the dread house rose.  He began quoting Colney Durance with relish while sarcastically confuting the cynic, who found much pasture in these Gardens.  Over Southward, too, he would be addressing a popular assembly to-morrow evening.  Between now and then there was a ditch to jump.  He put on the sympathetic face of grief.  ‘After all, a caged wild beast hasn’t so bad a life,’ he said.—­To be well fed while they live, and welcome death as a release